


The Day After Tomorrow

by Enfilade



Series: On My Dark and Lonely Side [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Consensual Sex, Dominance, M/M, Masochism, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Piercings, Sexual Content, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Voyeurism, Xeno, with regards to previously mentioned voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-04-08 08:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4297749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Megatron isn’t coming back to the Decepticons.  Tarn needs to make sense of the new world order and his place in it.  Maybe Deathsaurus can help him with that.  Sometimes politics makes for strange bedfellows.  Literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All Along the Watchtower

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redredribbons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redredribbons/gifts).



> This story is a sequel to “A Hole in the World,” but while that one was T-rated for thinking about stuff, this one is E-rated for doing stuff. The first chapter’s a recap and then it’s right into the smokin’ hot stuff. Get your fire extinguishers.
> 
> This is a fic about a consensual relationship, albeit one with undecided power dynamics factoring into the equation. Tarn uses his voice, but more seductively (he uses it to make being near him more appealing) than coercively (he’s not using it to inflict pain). 
> 
> It does have video taping with dubious consent (one character isn’t sure the other character knows and is okay with it. In real life you gotta ask and be sure the other person knows and is okay with it.) And it’s still got Tarn and the DJD being themselves, Deathsaurus being a Decepticon, etc., etc.
> 
> Cybertronians are sapient beings, equally capable of consent no matter what mode they’re in, and equally capable of consent regardless if their alt is a vehicle or a creature. There’s no creature-mode sex here, but there is thinking about it. To my mind the word “bestiality” does not apply since that word refers to sex with an animal that is non-sapient and therefore incapable of consent. However if thinking about sex with a sapient non-humanoid disturbs you, give this fic a miss.
> 
> On the other hand if you’re here for smokin’ hot valve-dominant Decepticon interfacing, step right this way.

Chapter One: All Along the Watchtower

Tarn sat in his office chair in the dark of his quarters, thinking. He had long considered himself to be the kind of mech who knew how he fit into his society. Long ago he had dedicated his entire being to the mastery of his role. 

Now, though, there was a new world order. Tarn felt a growing sense of disconnection as the universe around him failed again and again to make any sense. Events compounded with increasing rapidity. His every thought returned to the same place: Megatron had turned his back on the Decepticon Cause.

Tarn had not wanted to believe the datapad Helex had given him, but a few cross-checks of Cybertronian broadcasts had confirmed the worst. It had been a mistake allowing the DJD to get so out of touch with events on Cybertron. It had been an error to presume that Megatron would contact them if there were anything they needed to know. 

Tarn had waited two years for a call that never came, and _now_ …

Tarn realized, belatedly, that his dissatisfaction had been growing over those two years, and possibly before. He’d felt neglected by Megatron, underappreciated, and yet he’d dismissed his own concerns, quashing them for the good of the Cause.

Well. He’d almost terminated his own life functions before Nickel had reminded him that the Cause was bigger than Megatron.

And he’d still been boosting on the progenitor of all nuke highs when he’d come up with his current plan: to seek out Deathsaurus and enlist him in a little….internal administration. Deathsaurus, the rogue commander who’d taken it upon himself to pick up his entire squadron and anyone else who wanted in, steal a warworld, and head off to the Galactic Rim to conduct his own separate war. 

Deathsaurus had been quite a ways down the List for a simple reason: despite the fact that he no longer listened to Megatron, and his possession of the warworld was a category 5 theft, Deathsaurus was actually a fairly good Decepticon. It was more economical to allow him to continue terraforming planets in the name of the Cause than to hunt him down, terminate him, and have to find someone else to do his job afterwards.

Reluctantly, Tarn admitted that there had been a second factor. Fighting Deathsaurus meant, in practice, fighting Deathsaurus and his legion of fanatically loyal crack troops. That was a tall order, even for the DJD.

And so, Deathsaurus had lived with his name on the List for some time, and now he had lived long enough for Tarn to reconsider. 

The Decepticons had enemies out there—the Galactic Council, the Black Block Consortia, the Autobots, _Megatron_ _the traitor_ —and they needed a commander. Tarn liked to think he knew his own strengths and weaknesses. He was a boogeyman, a figure of retribution, and he had embraced his role. But he could not now surrender it and become an inspirational leader just because one was needed. 

Better to enlist, then, a mech who already led a combat-capable army. Megatron’s troops were scattered, some following Starscream on Cybertron, some lived in near-exile on Earth, and all by all appearances war-weary and beaten; Deathsaurus’s troops were still hard and hungry and spoiling for a fight. 

It had taken some work to win Deathsaurus’s trust. It had also taken getting pounded by explosives and playing mind games with Deathsaurus. Tarn shivered. What if…for just a split second he’d seriously considered whether or not he could kill his DJD, and though he’d found it surprisingly easy to say no, he still felt a chill when he realized he’d seriously contemplated the possibility of saying yes.

Well. As it turned out, _no_ was both the moral answer and the reply Deathsaurus had been looking for. Ironically enough, it was that moment when Tarn realized that Deathsaurus was more than he’d hoped. He’d known Deathsaurus had the rank and the resources and the combat skills, but he’d never imagined Deathsaurus might also have such a compatible philosophy with his own.

Was Deathsaurus his tool?

Or truly his ally?

Last night, Tarn had enjoyed a successful strategy meeting with Deathsaurus. Once business was concluded, though, Deathsaurus had steered the conversation into chit-chat. Ordinarily Tarn would have been content to let him talk: there was a wisdom in getting to know one’s new allies, and letting them get to know him. But Tarn was coming off the nuke high and as Nickel had warned him before the meeting, his frame would be sore for some time thanks to Deathsaurus’s explosives.

Tarn had wanted to sleep. Deathsaurus had not taken any of his hints to leave. The meeting had dragged on into an endurance match that taxed even Tarn’s reserves of strength. At last he’d been unable to successfully hide just how utterly exhausted he was.

Deathsaurus had helped him to his berth. Tarn had been irritated at himself for allowing his weakness to show, but it had given him a grudging regard for Deathsaurus’s perceptiveness and conscientiousness.

That had been before he’d woken up to find Deathsaurus sound asleep next to him in his berth. And Deathsaurus was _still_ sleeping there, _snoring_ even, his engine running rough in his sleep, while Tarn sat here in his chair with his fingers on his valve trying to figure out what in the Pit had gone on while he was too fatigued to realize what he was doing.

Was that what they called good manners out here on the Galactic Rim? Help a mech to his recharge slab and then invite yourself onto the slab with him?

Unable to simply go back into recharge after finding his unexpected bedmate, Tarn had eventually gotten up to… _investigate matters_. His first thought was that he’d done something entirely unlike himself and actually fragged his new ally. 

His fingers against his valve at least partially disproved that theory.

Tarn wanted to blame Megatron, but in truth it had been his idea. He had begged Megatron to seal their arrangement, to mark him and to claim him. He had procured the eight matching rings that now pierced the rim of his valve, four on each side. He had acquired the ninth ring, the large oval ring, the one that adorned his anterior node. He had designed the large lock that passed through all nine rings and fastened them together.

And, Tarn realized with some shame, it was he, acting on his own initiative, who had arranged for the lock to be randomly programmed with a number created by a computer and sent directly to one person: Megatron. Neither the lock’s programmer nor Tarn himself knew the passcode, which was as Tarn had planned it. 

Tarn would never forget the sensation that had lit his processor on fire the night he’d spread his thighs for his Lord and Emperor in an underground bunker in the city whose name he had taken for his own. Megatron, having thoroughly used Tarn’s valve, slowly slid the open lock through each ring in turn. Tarn had spoken words of eternal devotion, of utter subjugation to the Cause and its Leader. Tarn remembered how the click of the lock slamming shut had sent him into yet another overload. 

He overloaded every time he played that memory back.

Until now. Now, Tarn just felt foolish. And _used_. Tarn had been faithful…Tarn had been loyal…and yet Tarn was now the one stuck with this lock on his valve, while Megatron was free to frag a whole ship full of Autobots. 

Tarn had had put his trust in Megatron and Megatron had let him down. Him, _personally_ , and the Cause as well. Tarn would be angry about that in the morning, and righteously so.

Right now he, Tarn, was the one being punished. Sitting alone in the dark with a lock on his valve and the key in the hands of a mech who did not appreciate it. A just desert for someone who had committed the crime of misplacing his trust. He was going to be stuck with this lock until he swallowed his pride and asked Nickel to remove it.

Tarn reminded himself that Nickel had already seen it. The medic was very thorough in her examinations. Tarn had guessed by the way her stream of profanity-laden chatter had suddenly gone silent that even Nickel hadn’t seen a personal decoration quite like that before. Fortunately Nickel was a professional. She’d contented herself to know his valve was healthy and functional and told him that beyond that he could do as he pleased. 

…Who was he fooling? It was still going to be utterly humiliating to ask Nickel to cut off the lock. Even if she didn’t make him beg first.

Tarn’s spark ached with betrayal, just as his brain ached from the fading effects of his nuke overdose and his frame ached with the injuries sustained during yesterday’s fight. Tarn took deep ventilations, willing himself to just hold on until morning.

Tarn was almost, maybe, close to okay, when he made the mistake of checking his internal chronometer to see how long until the Peaceful Tyranny’s morning cycle began.

 _One hour, five minutes_.

Which meant five minutes until Tarn’s datastation began to ping a wakeup alert. Tarn cursed his old urge to start his duties early. Hold on till morning? It _was_ morning. Tarn had been lying awake far longer than he thought.

He had five minutes, though, five minutes to close his valve panel and compose himself and think about what he was going to say to Deathsaurus. Best to get to it, then.

Tarn curled his fingers around his panel, ready to flick it shut, when something caught his attention. A light that hadn’t been there before.

Coming from his berth.

A ruby glow in two pairs of optics, and all four were fixed on him.

Tarn froze, his fingers resting on the lip of his panel. For a moment he and Deathsaurus stared at one another in silence.

Then Deathsaurus grinned. “Well, now. Can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like _that_ before.”


	2. Love is a Battlefield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm impossibly psyched for TFCon and it's expressing itself as Decepticon smut. :D

Chapter Two: Love is a Battlefield

Tarn felt his faceplates heat and was infinitely grateful that his mask hid his face from Deathsaurus’s view. He was suddenly not sure what was worse: begging Nickel to cut the lock that interlaced with the nine piercings on his valve, or trying to maintain his dignity with Deathsaurus staring not only at his interface equipment but at the rings that decorated it—and the lock that guarded it.

There was really nothing appropriate to _say_ in this situation, so for a few moments, Tarn stared wordlessly at Deathsaurus and Deathsaurus stared back, shamelessly examining Tarn’s exotic piercings and rubbing his chin with one taloned hand.

“What I don’t understand,” Deathsaurus continued thoughtfully, “is whether that’s intended as a warning or a _challenge_.” 

On the last word, Deathsaurus raised an optic ridge, and a little light came on in the back of his optics. To Tarn it looked predatory and hungry and…whatever it was, it sent shivers down his spinal strut in a manner he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time.

“These rings are made of a very rare and very hard metal,” Tarn said stiffly, struggling to maintain his composure. Part of him wanted to demand what Deathsaurus was doing looking at his valve in the first place, but of course that would require him to justify why he was sitting here in the dark with his panel open. He didn’t want to admit that his memories of the evening before were still foggy. Really, he ought to ask Deathsaurus to justify why he had invited himself into Tarn’s berth. Instead, Tarn named the substance, buying himself time to think.

“That _is_ a challenge,” Deathsaurus said, sitting up in the berth, “but fortunately, my alt form’s beak is made of the same material and…” He ran his knuckles against his chest, as though polishing it. “…very sharp.”

Tarn stared, appalled and fascinated in equal measure. He hadn’t intended the gesture as an invitation, but if he _had_ , it would have been with the idea of tempting his partner to earn the access code. Deathsaurus clearly preferred direct action to wheedling and begging. It was an appealing attribute in a warlord, a _dangerous_ attribute given the uncertainty of the balance of power in the room, and perhaps a very practical attribute, too, when it came to getting rid of this lock. 

“Are you saying you can _bite_ this lock open?”

“Very possibly.” Deathsaurus grinned. “That is, assuming you _are_ offering me an invitation rather than a warning.”

Tarn crossed his left leg over his lap, hiding his valve from view while avoiding the humiliation of actually having to palm his panel shut. He crossed his arms for good measure and said sternly, “Before I even consider allowing your sharp beak anywhere near my valve, perhaps you would be so good as to explain to me just what you think you’re doing in my berth.”

“Recharging.” Deathsaurus stretched, flaring his wings and doing an excellent job of showing off the raw power in his frame. Tarn tried not to stare. “Frankly, I’m surprised you’re not. You could probably use it.”

He could, but he didn’t like having Deathsaurus tell him what to do. Tarn was not comfortable relinquishing his power to anyone who wasn’t Megatron…well, to anyone, now. “I like to get an early start on my duties.”

Deathsaurus’s grin broadened. “And yet you’re so coy.”

Tarn scowled. He could tell his optics were blazing, because Deathsaurus’s grin slipped. Tarn pressed his advantage. “Then let me be direct. I want to know why you invited yourself into my berth last night.”

Deathsaurus had misstepped, and it showed. The blue Decepticon stammered as he replied, “Cementing our alliance. That’s what last night was about, wasn’t it?”

Tarn hesitated. He had the sudden feeling that he was walking in uncertain terrain. A misstep could result in a fall. Or treading on a landmine. 

Deathsaurus tilted his head. “You _do_ want my troops to consider our allegiance solid. Don’t you?”

Of course he did. What would be the use of convincing Deathsaurus’s people that the DJD and their leader were uneasy allies? The thought flitted through his mind and collided headlong with another: what did Deathsaurus’s presence in his berth have to do with their alliance?

Tarn’s cowl must’ve been visible in his optics. “Don’t worry,” Deathsaurus said hastily, “I’ve spent the night, so, if I leave in a few hours and say we have an understanding, the crew is going to come to the natural conclusion.”

A creeping sense of unreality closed over Tarn’s spark. “Are you implying that your crew is going to presume that you and I…interfaced?”

Deathsaurus replied, slowly and carefully, “How else would we cement an alliance?”

_How else indeed._

Tarn knew the Decepticons out on the galactic rim had developed traditions and customs that differed from those based on Cybertron. Tarn was well aware the DJD had its own unique “unit culture,” because he’d had to teach it to Vos not that long ago. Tarn understood that if the DJD were going to join forces with the crew of the _Thunder Arrow_ , as Deathsaurus had named his flagship, the DJD were going to have to adapt to the _Thunder Arrow_ ’s way of doing things.

_But using interface to seal a political alliance?_

That was a new one, and Tarn…Tarn honestly wasn’t sure how he should be reacting to that custom.

Thank Fortune for his mask! Tarn suspected his jaw was hanging open underneath it.

Tarn wasn’t sure if he ought to tell the rest of the DJD the truth, or let his unit—his friends—think he’d fragged Deathsaurus. 

At least Deathsaurus wasn’t pressing the issue. Tarn didn’t actually have to follow through, if Deathsaurus’s words were to be believed. 

But as Tarn was thinking, Deathsaurus was thinking too. His optics came to rest on Tarn’s thigh—the thigh hiding his valve—and the weight of his gaze was almost physical. Tarn felt his valve quiver in response.

“Though it seems you’ve taken rather significant measures to make alliances difficult.” He lifted his gaze to Tarn’s. “That _is_ a test, isn’t it?”

Now Tarn was faced with a difficult decision. If he told Deathsaurus that it had been his idea for Megatron to put this lock on his valve, he’d look weak and foolish in front of a strong and still uncertain ally. But a mech who finalized negotiations via interface would think Tarn was being uncooperative if he implied that he locked up his valve himself. And he still wasn’t sure how Deathsaurus could be so confident that Tarn would bend over and bare his valve for him. This alliance—creating and enforcing the List—the upholding of the Decepticon Cause—those were all _Tarn_ ’s ideas.

Tarn’s power.

Tarn might sometimes resent his reputation, but other times his smooth talking was a true blessing. “Earning my spike is easy,” he said coolly, “earning my valve takes something special.” 

Deathsaurus visibly startled. Tarn got that terrible feeling that he was in a minefield again, and this time he’d just heard something click under his foot.

Then Deathsaurus threw back his head and laughed. Tarn tried not to stare while the warlord wiped at his optics. “You are really nothing like I expected,” Deathsaurus said.

Tarn had to figure out what that meant without admitting that he didn’t already know. “Oh?” he said, and waited. It was amazing how an expression of encouragement followed by silence could loosen a mech’s lips.

“Well,” Deathsaurus explained, “given your reputation I would have thought it was all valve service all the time for you.”

_That_ sounded as though Deathsaurus were implying that Tarn was a…a buymech, or one of those omega Decepticons who traded frags for favours. He was _not_ just Megatron’s whore!

Or rather, his valve was reserved for Megatron’s use by _his_ choice, not Megatron’s demand. How dare Deathsaurus make an insinuation like that?

But Deathsaurus was still speaking. “That you’d never stoop to using your spike. But you tell me you’re willing to give away your spike so readily to your favoured subordinates, while they have to _work_ to _earn_ the right to be mastered by you? Pardon me, but that seems like an inversion of the natural order.”

Tarn had either managed to close his jaw in between shocks, or else it had somehow dropped lower still. The words were out of his mouth before he could think better of them. “Power lies in the hands of…the mech who uses his valve?”

Deathsaurus tilted his head. “What else would…” Suddenly his primary optics glowed and, an instant later, his secondary pair. “It’s true, then? Cybertron’s a planet of perverts who favour their spikes?”

“Not _favour_ necessarily…” Tarn spoke carefully. “But generally speaking, if one were to ask the average Decepticon soldier, they would say that using the spike is the privilege of rank.”

Deathsaurus drew back, grimacing as though disgusted. “ _Why_?”

And Tarn felt somewhat disgusted himself at the idea that being able to stick one’s spike into another and demand they, if not like it, at least accept it, should be a privilege of power. Such crude pillage was the province of barbarians—those brutes who did so well on the front likes precisely because their violence and crudity left them no place anywhere else. “Because Lord Megatron likes to use his spike,” Tarn said instead. Which was _true_ , though Tarn suspected that the average Decepticon was influenced less by Lord Megatron’s personal preferences and more by a cultural theory of dominance that predated the creation of the Decepticons and, as far as Tarn could tell, went back to the tribal wars of the Primes.

Deathsaurus raised an eye ridge. “Really? That doesn’t make any sense.”

And Tarn found himself relying on the same trick again. “Oh?”

Thankfully that technique kept working. “Well of _course_ ,” Deathsaurus said, as though he were explaining interface to an idiot. “ _Anyone_ can stuff a spike into an orifice and manage to derive some satisfaction from it, but to command your subordinate to pleasure your valve—knowing your mastery of your partner is so absolute that you can control their actions to suit your needs and desires, _demanding_ the skill and endurance necessary to please, having no fear whatsoever of discomfort in such a tender area because your mastery is utterly _complete_ — _that_ is the true nature of dominance. Not to mention the _self-mastery_ required to experience the ultimate in pleasure and yet never reduce yourself to begging the mech who services you.”

Tarn’s valve pulsed enthusiastically. The sensation of gathering moisture suggested to Tarn that his valve was in strong agreement with Deathsaurus’s philosophy. Traitorous thing.

“Well, you can see for yourself what Lord Megatron thought about permitting me full expression of my power,” Tarn said coolly. It wasn’t entirely true—the lock had been Tarn’s idea—but the more often he could emphasize that he and Deathsaurus were united against Megatron, the better.

“Hmph. Clearly Megatron didn’t have as much self-mastery as he liked us to think he did. Never letting anyone near his valve, and locking up yours for fear of what you might do with it when he’s not looking.”

“Yes,” Tarn said, mock-sulking, “you would think loyalty ought to be rewarded with trust.”

“What if we begin with trust?” Deathsaurus cocked his head; the gesture reminded Tarn of an animal, some sort of avian creature. “Let me help you with that lock.”

Tarn narrowed his optics. “You bite it off….and then what?”

Deathsaurus grinned. “What would you _like_ to happen next?”


	3. Master of Puppets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big O HAI to everyone I saw at TFCon!!!
> 
> This is the chapter with detailed fantasies regarding alt modes, particularly creature modes.

Chapter Three: Master of Puppets

Tarn felt his mouth go dry from the way Deathsaurus was looking at him.

Ordinarily, he’d think that getting fragged by Deathsaurus was too high a price for having this lock cut off his valve. The situation changed when Tarn considered that Deathsaurus believed the mech who used his valve was the one in the position of power; the mech who used his spike was his subordinate, his servant.

The only obstacle in Tarn’s way was, well, was a few million years of considering his valve Megatron’s property. He hadn’t let anyone else near it. Tarn suspected it would take some time to learn a new way of thinking.

Unfortunately, the present offer was on the table right now, and he was going to have to act or lose this opportunity.

So if he still considered his valve to be Megatron’s…why not teach Megatron a lesson in the consequences of betrayal? Have Tarn’s valve all to himself? Not any more. Megatron didn’t deserve it any longer.

Tarn could rid himself of Megatron’s lock, consolidate his power over Deathsaurus, and stick it to Megatron all at the same time. 

All he had to do was make sure that Deathsaurus didn’t guess how nervous he felt. Nervousness was not a desirable quality in a Decepticon leader. Thank Fortune for his mask!

“Well,” Tarn said smoothly, “once we remove that final obstacle, I see no reason not to maintain tradition and cement this alliance properly…assuming you’re amenable.”

Deathsaurus’s primary optics gleamed. “You know, ordinarily I’d say you’re pushing my tolerance, but I must admit I find a challenge irresistible.” His gaze dropped to the nine rings that circled Tarn’s valve, and the lock that held them shut.

Tarn was asking a lot of Deathsaurus. The warlord had been operating essentially independently out here on the galactic rim, and although Tarn had defeated him by asking Kaon to hack the _Thunder Arrow_ ’s inter-Decepticon frequency, Tarn also knew that he would get a lot further having Deathsaurus as a willing ally. So while it was right and good that Tarn claim the dominant position, being generous to his associate would also be appropriate once his authority had been recognized.

It didn’t hurt that Tarn would enjoy such generosity.

“I believe in rewarding good service,” Tarn purred. “The best alliances are mutually beneficial.”

He might have let some of his particular talent creep into his voice there. Deathsaurus looked positively _enraptured_.

Tarn made a note to go easy on the sonic coercion. He wanted Deathsaurus enthusiastically consenting, not charmed into rote obedience or complying out of fear of pain. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to enhance the experience just a _tad_ , as long as Tarn remained in control of his talent.

Tarn slowed his engine to a rhythmic hum and rose from the chair where he’d been seated. He moved across the room, his valve panel still open, hoping he still had some of the fluid grace he’d possessed once upon a time, in an age before war. Deathsaurus seemed to remember himself; he sat up eagerly as Tarn approached him. 

It was so easy to forget how _young_ Deathsaurus was. 

And it was no wonder, really, that he’d kept fighting even after he’d turned his back on Megatron. Deathsaurus knew no other life than combat.

It was actually rather that such a mechanism had no place in Megatron’s world of ultimate peace. Tarn had once thought he would have no role either; he would have served his purpose and thereby eliminated all need for his own skills. Now, though, Tarn supposed he would need to keep an eye on the Decepticon Empire—maintenance of the internal administration, standards control, that sort of thing—and perhaps there would be a job for Deathsaurus, too, just in case any more external threats to Cybertron health and happiness were to present themselves.

Tarn was going to have to write his own book. Perhaps he’d call it _Towards War_.

He smiled under his mask as he halted in front of Deathsaurus. “Get up,” he whispered.

Deathsaurus obeyed. Immediately. Unquestionably.

Tarn took Deathsaurus’ hand, as though Deathsaurus existed solely to assist him, and used it as leverage to turn himself and take a seat on the berth. His bed was warm where Deathsaurus had been lying. It felt incredibly decadent, the heat moreso than the delicately woven tarps or the soft yet supportive surface. Warmth had been so rare on Messatine. Tarn wanted to revel in it.

And he would. Oh, he _would_.

“What angle would you recommend?” he asked, and smiled to himself. Deathsaurus would know better than he how to use that beak effectively, but by phrasing the question this way, Tarn kept power in his own hands.

“Lean back,” Deathsaurus said. “It’s more important that you’re able to hold very still.”

Tarn took a pillow from the top of the berth and propped it behind his back as he reclined. His berth was top-of-the-line—he deserved some perks for all he’d sacrificed, didn’t he? He knew it would be comfortable, but the warmth made it even more decadent.

Deathsaurus was examining him with a little smirk on his lips.

 _Oh_. Tarn was glad for the mask as he spread his legs. He raised his chin, taking on the posture of a mech who was bored with the whole affair, allowing his mask to conceal the nervous twitch under his left eye. He wasn’t the kind of person who showed off his array to all and sundry. Such things ought to be private. Deathsaurus hadn’t really proved he could be trusted with them.

But the rules of this new world were different. Tarn told himself that plenty of mechs took partners to berth _without_ first putting them through countless loyalty trials. _Megatron himself_ hadn’t demanded all his lovers meet Tarn’s exacting standards. Tarn was either in charge here or he wasn’t, and if he was in charge then he had nothing to fear.

He feared anyway, and let the mask conceal it.

“I’m thinking one good snip at the back of the valve ought to do the trick,” Deathsaurus said. “Sever the ring between the two sets of piercings.” Both pairs of optics glittered. “Permission to proceed?”

Tarn waved his right hand nonchalantly and fought to keep his voice steady. “Permission granted.”

Deathsaurus transformed.

Tarn had never seen Deathsaurus’s alt mode before. Oh, Kaon’s file described it—there were even schematics—but it was one thing to know he transformed into a creature and quite another to see it up close. Deathsaurus was _big_ , radiating menace from his sharp hooked beak and regal head crest to his powerful hindquarters and lashing tail. He would have been formidable even as an animal; to know that a cunning intelligence lurked behind those ruby eyes made him more dangerous yet.

It occurred to Tarn, as Deathsaurus leaned over him, that most creatures had interfacing equipment or some similar parallel.

Did Deathsaurus have two sets? Or did he have one set that he could use in either mode? Tarn’s was disabled when he was a tank. To his knowledge, the rest of his team was similar—it was the Cybertronian norm—but Deathsaurus was not the norm and Tarn’s mouth went dry when he realized that out here on the Rim it might be perfectly normal to frag someone in alt mode.

Being fucked by a creature.

Tarn felt a shiver of fear, which of course he ought not be feeling because he was supposed to be the one in control here. He was leader, he was in command, and he wasn’t going to get fragged by this…this _beast_.

 _Unless you want to be_ , whispered a voice in his mind, and he felt another shiver pass through his frame, because what if—maybe—what if, just maybe, he _did_?

Tarn felt everything he’d ever thought he knew about himself crumble and fall away. Megatron, the Decepticons, his own self-image…the ground under him turned to sand and slid into a vortex of turmoil and confusion, while Tarn sought for something, anything, that could provide him with a secure foundation.

Deathsaurus leaned forward and cocked his head, studying the lock on Tarn’s valve with one avian optic.

In the absence of certainty, Tarn had no choice but to bluff. “So, do you think you can crack it?” he asked, challenging Deathsaurus to rise to meet his demand. No sooner was the question out of his mouth when he wondered if Deathsaurus understood.

“Why waste time guessing?” the rogue warlord replied. “Why not simply _find out_?”

Deathsaurus’s voice was the same as it was in robot mode. Tarn wondered why he was so shocked, and didn’t like the answer. He had to remember that Deathsaurus was just as intelligent as a creature as Tarn was as a tank, and apparently just as articulate. Tarn had to get over these prejudices he hadn’t even realized he had.

_And so there’s nothing at all wrong with asking him to frag you like this, given as he’s every bit as capable of consent no matter what mode he’s in…_

Tarn felt his face blazing under the mask. His fans spun faster and Tarn wasted no time diverting coolant to his face. _That_ was a thought he could file for later, _after_ this alliance was formalized and this damned lock was off his valve!

“Why indeed,” Deathsaurus mused.

Deathsaurus wasn’t just large, he was _quick_. Nothing so big should be so fast. One moment Deathsaurus was eyeing his target and the next he’d struck like a snake and his razor sharp beak was clamped tight on the big ring that encircled Tarn’s valve. Tarn gasped as he felt a pull on all nine rings, and the tender places where they were anchored. His valve lips throbbed, but his node, by Mortilus, his traitorous node was _excited_ by such rough usage. Pain and pleasure chased one another up through Tarn’s systems as Deathsaurus tugged on the ring, once, twice.

Then the creature let the ring go, and transformed back to robot mode.

Tarn felt a tumult of unexpected emotions. Frustration that the plan hadn’t worked. Relief, that it was over. Disappointment that it was over… _that makes no sense_ , he chided himself, until his node pulsed insistently, craving stimulation that wasn’t coming. But Tarn knew the emotion he ought to be expecting was either fury or disdain. Megatron probably would’ve advocated anger, but Tarn chose disdain. Rage was so…messy and chaotic and undignified.

“Is that your best?” Tarn said.

“No.” Deathsaurus leaned forward, hands on hips, optics twinkling wickedly. “My best is what comes next.”

He reached out with both hands. Tarn felt just the slightest graze of taloned fingertips against pain-sensitized valve lips. Then the eight rings gave off a sensation of pressure, starting gently, growing into a sustained, relentless pull. Before Tarn could think to wonder whether Deathsaurus intended to simply _tear_ all his piercings out, the pressure subsided.

Deathsaurus let go with his left hand, twisted his right wrist.

Suddenly the pressure on the left side of Tarn’s valve was gone. Deathsaurus rotated his hand, and the pressure on the right vanished as well. Tarn was left with the sight of the main ring, now stretched with a clear gap at the end, threaded neatly through only one piercing—the one through his anterior node.

Tarn stared, and he wasn’t sure what had him more flabbergasted: the fact that Deathsaurus’ beak had been sharp enough to sever the ring after all, or the fact that Deathsaurus had the _nerve_ to toy with him. He was about to tell Deathsaurus to finish the job already when Deathsaurus twisted his wrist again, which turned the big ring, which turned the piercing in Tarn’s node, which sent pain-pleasure-pain-pleasurechasing up Tarn’s neural net once more. Only a soft groan came out of Tarn’s mouth.

Deathsaurus smirked.

Losing control was intolerable. Tarn snapped, “You can do that just as well without the big ring.”

“So I can,” Deathsaurus replied, and flicked his wrist. When he lifted his hand, the big ring sat in the center of his palm, with the lock dangling uselessly from the left side. He offered it to Tarn as though it were some kind of perverse gift.

And, Tarn realized, it was.

He’d heard that some organic cultures offered rings as symbols of union, and shivered again.

Tarn accepted the ring from Deathsaurus—the ring that had once sealed away his valve. Or perhaps, he thought, looking up at Deathsaurus, who was watching him with a distinctly predatory look—perhaps _protected_ would have been a better phrase.

Tarn had to make a decision quickly. He’d gotten what he wanted. He’d gotten Megatron’s lock off his valve. Now he had to either make up his mind to frag his new ally or get out of this situation, _fast_.

Deathsaurus continued staring at his valve without the slightest hint of shame. Tarn’s mouth went dry as he saw Deathsaurus’s tongue emerge from the corner of his mouth and lick his lips.

Tarn was…well, if not completely _inexperienced_ with his valve, then accustomed to obeying Megatron’s every order. That wasn’t going to work here. Deathsaurus seemed to think that the mech using his valve was the dominant one, and Tarn had to _stay_ dominant or else the DJD’s entire alliance with Deathsaurus’s crew was going to take on a very different dynamic. An unacceptable one. Tarn had to keep the whole group focused for the sake of the Decepticon Cause itself.

And for the sake of the Decepticon Cause, Tarn could not settle for a weak truce. His alliance with Deathsaurus was the foundation on which the future of Cybertron would be built. It needed to be solid.

That was why he needed to do this, no matter how uncertain he was.

_No matter how scared I am._

It was just one more way to suffer for the Cause.


	4. A Thousand Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for their kind comments as I continue my attempts to press-gang folks onto this lovely Decepticon battle ship :)

Chapter Four: A Thousand Words

Tarn looked at Deathsaurus, standing between his parted thighs, licking his lips like a beast ready to pounce, and wished he knew more about how this whole _valve-dominant_ philosophy worked. He didn’t feel all that dominant right now. He felt like a snack, about to get devoured by a very hungry warrior who was as much beast as mechanism.

But just as his mask concealed his facial expressions, Tarn knew he had to make sure his body language concealed his doubts. Deathsaurus, like any good Decepticon, scorned weakness. He would attack if he knew that Tarn was unsure of himself—or, worse, he would invert their whole alliance. Even if Tarn didn’t feel particularly masterful right now, he had to act the part that Deathsaurus expected of him. 

“Are there any rules that I should know before I begin?” Deathsaurus purred. He smirked, ran a talon up Tarn’s neck, hooking his clawed fingertip under the edge of Tarn’s mask. “Let me guess…the mask stays on?”

Tarn felt himself at a loss for words. His first impulse was to say _yes_ because that had always been the correct answer. His second impulse was to say _no_ because he didn’t belong to Megatron any more. His third thought was the realization that he must look like an idiot, and his fourth thought was relief that his mask hid his expression. He closed his hand around Deathsaurus’s wrist to prevent the rogue commander from snapping the mask off. 

“Yes,” he said, and that choice felt right. Tarn didn’t actually know how to _do_ most of the things mechs did with their mouths, at least not very well, and he appreciated the assistance in concealing his emotions which the mask afforded. 

Deathsaurus had no such help. Tarn could see the disappointment in the frown at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t be discouraged,” Tarn murmured quietly as he released his grip. “I promise you I’ll _more_ than make up for it.”

Big words from a mech with relatively little experience. But _words_ had always been Tarn’s home advantage. Deathsaurus shivered with obvious anticipation, and Tarn realized he’d let a little of his talent creep into his voice again.

What must it feel like, to hear those vibrations slide into one’s audios, trickle down one’s nervous system, caress one’s innermost spark? What must it feel like for your partner to be able to reach right down inside you? A spike in a valve was nothing compared to a song that could penetrate your very life essence.

Tarn felt a little more secure, then. Or, at least he did until those talons reversed their travel, back down his neck, over his chest, across his abdomen. He felt as though he held a deadly beast by the tail, and if his control slipped for even an instant, it would turn on him and devour him.

Of course, one might have said the same about Megatron and his hunting hounds, the DJD.

How was Tarn to deal with this situation? Once again, out of desperation, he turned to Megatron for inspiration. Tarn hated to do it given his current feelings about Megatron, but he had no choice. 

He thought about what interface had been like with Megatron. Megatron had commanded, and he had obeyed. Oh, how he’d loved to obey. Now the roles were reversed, in more ways than one. He had taken on Megatron’s role as the ideal Decepticon, and now he was going to take on Megatron’s role in the berth. This shouldn’t be so hard. He just had to give Deathsaurus a command.

Tarn realized, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that he had no idea what kind of command a mech gave to someone who was offering to pleasure his valve. Megatron had never let Tarn anywhere near his. And Tarn had never let another lover near his valve, either, not since Megatron.

Deathsaurus cocked an optic ridge, clearly impatient.

And Tarn realized what he needed to do.

“Do you not know what to do next,” Tarn said in a deliberately bored tone of voice, “or are you mesmerized?”

Deathsaurus snorted. Laughed. “I have a number of ideas about what to do next,” Deathsaurus replied casually, extending his left hand. Tarn felt something brush the left side of his valve ever so lightly, weaving in and out around the piercings, and he realized with a shudder that it was the tip of Deathsaurus’ index talon. “Trying them out unbidden might constitute insubordination.”

“On the contrary,” Tarn replied, praying he could live up to his _smooth talker_ reputation. “Micromanaging benefits no one. I’d much rather allow a competent commander to show some initiative.”

Deathsaurus went down on one knee. “Evaluation afterwards?”

“Of course.” Tarn clamped his vents shut, refusing to let Deathsaurus hear the rasp of air passing through them. He’d rather scorch some internals than admit how the sight of the bestial commander on his knees between his spread legs affected him. His valve felt oddly sticky, and yet he had no confidence that it was wet enough to take a spike without discomfort.

_Two parts to this challenge. You have to tell him what to do._

_And you mustn’t let him make you beg._

“Mmm.” Deathsaurus lifted his hand—right before he got to Tarn’s anterior node, _of course_ he had to stop before he got there—and, much to Tarn’s surprise, pressed some sort of catch on the inside lip of his own helm. The stylized beast head on his helmet slid up and back until the beak was flush with Deathsaurus’s forehead.

Tarn had a sudden realization where Deathsaurus’s lips could now go without any risk of that beak stabbing into Tarn’s abdomen.

Tarn felt heat building under his mask. He’d expected rubbing, fingering, spiking…but not _that_. 

And, of course, he couldn’t let Deathsaurus know he was flustered, so he had to act as though the impending activity was merely to be expected rather than the completely shocking and terrifyingly novel new experience it actually _was_.

“Once again....permission to proceed?” Deathsaurus looked up at him, his optics glinting, as though he expected Tarn to back down. 

“Granted,” Tarn said lazily, hoping Deathsaurus hadn’t heard the way his breath caught at the end of the word, or how his throat had tightened shut. He wasn’t sure if he could unleash the power of his voice now even if he wanted to.

Before he knew it, he’d turned off his optics. He knew that the mask would give the illusion that he was watching. He was almost certain he could force his frame to stay still. But he…he wasn’t sure he could look.

Instead, he _felt_ , and what he felt was very strange indeed. 

What he felt was a gentle tug on the upper left ring in his valve. Then the one beneath. Then the upper _right_. The sensation continued along all eight rings, a light but undeniable tension. 

Then they moved. Just a little, not enough to hurt, barely enough to notice except for the distinct sensation of his valve being ever so delicately opened.

Tarn was nervous to look, but he was more afraid of not knowing what was happening to him. He lit his optics and took a peek.

Deathsaurus had woven his talons into the rings. Index fingers in the top rings. Middle fingers in the next set. All the way down, one claw per ring, and now he was carefully easing Tarn’s valve lips apart. He either didn’t notice that Tarn was watching or he thought Tarn had been looking all along and didn’t care. His attention was wholly focused on the interior of Tarn’s valve.

And he was licking his lips again.

It was a true shame that Megatron was so suspicious of religion, because Tarn really could’ve used a god to pray to for strength.

Tarn pressed his head back into the pillow, drew a deep breath, and dimmed his optics again. He wondered if it would hurt. Or if it would be the absolute addiction other mechs talked about.

_Either way, you can’t let him know it._ Tarn steeled his frame, and his nerves. One breath. Two. Then his sensors returned an uncertain observation: cold?

He wasn’t even sure he felt it. He thought maybe the ring in his node had moved, but he wasn’t certain. His sensors made another observation: soft. Moist? Yes. Moist and cold. No. Now warm and wet, smooth, and so soft.

Tarn didn’t have nearly enough comparative experience to evaluate what was happening. His brain demanded more data. His optics obeyed, activating, and he found himself treated to the sight of Deathsaurus delicately applying his tongue to his anterior node—just the tip, the softest brush of wet, warm tongue, then the cool rush of air to chill his node between caresses.

Tarn’s vents popped open. He inhaled, a ragged breath.

And Deathsaurus somehow smiled mid-stroke, a grin that reached both sets of optics. He grabbed the ring on Tarn’s node ever-so-delicately between his teeth and gently tugged on it.

The sensation of _pain-pleasure-pain_ from his node ring, combined with the tender pull on his valve rings, created a contrast that Tarn’s overwhelmed sensors could not process. Instead of tripping his anger trigger and urging him to tell Deathsaurus to stop, the exquisite pain served as fuel for his arousal, igniting smouldering embers into a bold frame. Tarn swore he could feel moisture in his valve that had nothing to do with Deathsaurus’s tongue. 

If he’d had time to fully explore the sensation, he might’ve been able to say for sure. Unfortunately for the historical record, Deathsaurus pulled his talons just a little farther apart—just enough for Tarn to feel the stretch—and ran his tongue right down the center of Tarn’s valve. After that it was impossible to say what moisture was Tarn’s own lubricants and what was left behind by Deathsaurus’s caress.

Tarn held his breath, hoping his gasp wasn’t audible, feeling like a traitor belted down into Kaon’s alt mode, or locked into Helex’s smelter, or about to be fed through Tesarus’s grinder. His whole body was on full alert, waiting for a terrifying unknown.

But nothing awful happened. Deathsaurus seemed quite content to lap at each and every piercing in turn, sometimes jiggling the ring while his tongue caressed the base, sometimes using the rings to open Tarn’s valve while he slipped just the tip of his tongue inside. Soon both lips were soaking wet while the inside…well, the inside was all but neglected, and Tarn was beginning to have a _problem_ with that. If this was going to be uncomfortable he wanted it over with, and if it was going to be pleasurable…as he now rather suspected it might be….if it was going to be pleasurable he wanted to _know._

“Are you going to get on with it?” Tarn growled at last.

Deathsaurus glanced up, leaving his tongue still wound around the upper right ring, waiting for a moment before releasing it to speak. “Get on with _what_?”

He was deliberately feigning ignorance. “Get…inside,” Tarn said, feeling his face heat with humiliation at having to say such a thing, _out loud_ , to someone who wasn’t Megatron. He found himself forced to crack open his vents to relieve the building discomfort in his frame.

“You know,” Deathsaurus mused, releasing the pressure on the piercings and allowing his index talons to graze Tarn’s poor neglected anterior node ever so slightly, “I’m afraid I’m going to run into trouble with these _ambiguous orders_ of yours.” The tip of his tongue whispered over Tarn’s extremely sensitive anterior node in a manner that couldn’t possibly have been accidental. “ _Inside_ , he says. With what? Talons? Spike?”

Tarn felt a flare of anger in his spark, and it was followed by a surge of excitement very like that of battle. Deathsaurus was testing him and he….he would be victorious.

“What a _shame_ ,” Tarn purred, “to think you need step-by-step _instructions_. Ah well. It’s probably good to know if you can follow orders.” He could feel his talent activating; he kept its influence as low as he could manage, but he couldn’t seem to turn it off entirely. And, truthfully, why would he want to? He was actually starting to _enjoy_ himself.

Deathsaurus hung on his every word as Tarn continued. “Listen carefully, now. First, I want you to put your tongue on my anterior node and truly _apply yourself_.” His voice whispered promises of indescribable reward should such application come to pass. “I know you can be more… _thorough_ …than you have been up to this point.” Now his voice vibrated with shame, and Deathsaurus quivered. “On my command, you may proceed to the second stage, namely preparing my valve…” Deathsaurus’s wings snapped open in uncontrolled desire.

Tarn was proud of the way he kept his voice even; his brain was flashing up messages that those filthy vids Tesarus always left playing on the monitors had _finally_ proven _useful_ and perhaps he ought to make it up to Tesarus somehow—if not full exoneration, then at the very least, someone else could mop the _Peaceful Tyranny_ ’s decks for a while. If he were fortunate, he’d never have to say that the stay of sentence was in gratitude for the knowledge of how a mech could use his tongue and hands to ready his partner for interface. 

“…and when you think it’s ready, you can show me your spike for inspection while I decide whether your preparatory work was thorough enough.”

For a moment Tarn was afraid he’d pushed Deathsaurus too far. The rogue commander stared at him, stunned and silent. Tarn started to feel ridiculous, what with his splayed legs and exposed valve.

Then Deathsaurus grinned, and although he looked his usual rakish self, Tarn was willing to bet that the smile was genuine.

“You really _are_ full of surprises, aren’t you,” he said, and his deep voice rumbled with dulcet tones of admiration.

“Is it really so surprising,” Tarn teased back, “that service is its own reward?” His smile was hidden under his mask, which really was rather a shame, all things considered.


	5. Physical Fascination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for their kind comments! On a newly launched ship it's easy to think you and a handful of others are all alone aboard and it looks like we're not after all, so...welcome aboard!

Chapter Five: Physical Fascination

Fragging to seal an alliance. Tarn recalled a number of plays that had included the trope; allegedly it had been a common practice in the old days of the Thirteen Tribes, though Tarn also knew a historian who’d argued that the archaic custom had been romanticized and taken out of context by writers who were more interested in a good story with a kinky hook. Well, Tarn’s current situation was no myth.

The practice was alive and well out here in the Rim, with an unusual twist: mechs out here considered the person using his valve to be the one in control, whereas the person using his spike was seen as a stud, servile and obedient, fulfilling the role of a…a sex toy, or something of that nature… Tarn got flustered just thinking about it. And thank Fortune for his mask, because here he was, taking _part_ in this ritual: lying on his back on his berth, Deathsaurus kneeling before him.

Given that Deathsaurus had been on the List until, well, yesterday, and given that Deathsaurus was extremely protective of his crew, it had not been unsurprising that Deathsaurus responded to Tarn’s request for a rendezvous with suspicion and high explosives. With a beginning like _that_ , Tarn had been willing to make a few concessions to secure the alliance the Empire so desperately needed. 

Tarn had drawn the line at killing his fellow DJD members, of course, but as it turned out, that request had been a test. Still, Tarn had been reluctant to balk again. So, when he found out that Deathsaurus expected them to frag, and that he expected Tarn to be the receiver, well, Tarn had decided that for the good of the Decepticon Cause, he’d better lie back and take it. Trying to change a group’s entire culture for the sake of an alliance was never a good idea. And Tarn had already proven himself ready, willing, and able to suffer for the Cause.

What he hadn’t expected was that he might actually find himself _liking_ his role in this arrangement. Being shown respect? And being spoiled rotten, if Deathsaurus played his part properly? Agreeing to do something was one thing, but enjoying it was something else again.

And as it turned out, Deathsaurus’s tongue lapping delicately over Tarn’s anterior node was…well. Rather a commanding performance. It sent a shiver through Tarn’s backstrut and a pulse of sympathy into his valve. It stopped the breath in his vents as he waited—it felt like an eternity he waited—between the time one lick ended and the next one began. He felt his systems start their old familiar craving, this time not for transformation or nuke but for this brand new vice. Pleasure choked his systems, but a cold fear began to grow in his spark.

How had Deathsaurus phrased it? 

“ _Anyone_ can stuff a spike into an orifice and manage to derive some satisfaction from it, but to command your subordinate to pleasure your valve—knowing your mastery of your partner is so absolute that you can control their actions to suit your needs and desires, _demanding_ the skill and endurance necessary to please, having no fear whatsoever of discomfort in such a tender area because your mastery is utterly _complete_ — _that_ is the true nature of dominance. Not to mention the _self-mastery_ required to experience the ultimate in pleasure and yet never reduce yourself to begging the mech who services you.”

There was an implicit threat in there. Tarn could not beg. If he did, he lost his mastery and in doing so, would lose control of this alliance.

Tarn had not realized that was going to be a _concern_.

The thing was…

Tarn had not had a terrible amount of experience at this sort of thing. His valve had been Megatron’s personal playground for millions of years, and Megatron had not deigned to stoop to using his mouth on it. Now it seemed to Tarn that however pleasant this felt right now, it would feel a lot better if Deathsaurus used a bit more pressure and moved, perhaps, a bit quicker. This light licking was making Tarn feel all hot and bothered without actually giving him any kind of _release_. And it was getting very difficult for Tarn not to say something. He ought not use his power to coerce Deathsaurus into giving him what he wanted—forced servitude was no devotion at all—but he’d come out the loser if his words sounded like a plea.

Then Deathsaurus caught the ring through Tarn’s node in his teeth and gave it a tug and a twist. Tarn gasped, rising up on his elbows, not sure if he was feeling pain or pleasure or both. When he looked down, he saw Deathsaurus smirking up at him; then the rogue commander bowed his head and went back to the demure little licks again.

Tarn had a terrible suspicion that Deathsaurus was doing that on _purpose_.

And if he wanted to keep his role as the new Emperor—if he didn’t want to end up Deathsaurus’s subordinate—he was going to have to exercise some control and give some orders without using the full power in his voice.

The problem was that a very large part of Tarn’s spark really _wanted_ to be dominated. He wanted to serve, wanted to surrender himself, wanted to be praised for his sacrifice…

 _No!_ Tarn reprimanded himself harshly. This situation didn’t exist to fulfill Tarn’s personal fantasies. Tarn had a sacred mission to safeguard the Decepticon cause. He had to do it, for the sake of all of Cybertron, and for the sake of people like Nickel, who trusted in the Decepticons to defend them against enemies without and within. And though Deathsaurus showed much promise as an ally, Tarn could not entrust him with the sole responsibility for punishing Megatron and guiding the Decepticons into the future. Tarn needed to be sure that he and Deathsaurus agreed on their vision for the Decepticons’ future. 

And Tarn needed to be the one to deliver to Megatron a traitor’s just deserts.

Tarn steeled himself to do his duty. 

“Harder,” Tarn commanded.

Deathsaurus finished his current lick and looked up at Tarn from between the DJD commander’s thighs, his optics flashing red warning, and for a brief instant Tarn wondered if Deathsaurus would reject the command.

Then Deathsaurus bowed his head and obeyed.

Tarn couldn’t rein in the groan that sprang from his throat. By the Celestial Spires…that felt _good_. Yes. _Oh yes_.

Tarn recognized that his hips were moving, pressing his valve closer to Deathsaurus’s mouth. The rogue commander was licking him not just harder but _faster_ , flicking his anterior node back and forth, the piercing in it clattering against Deathsaurus’s teeth. Deathsaurus’ taloned hands scraped delicious furrows over Tarn’s thighs, urging them wider, and when the tips of those talons dug in just far enough to hurt, Tarn threw his head back and moaned. His fans had changed settings without his knowledge; they were blasting out hot air. _Primus_ he liked this; he wanted to indulge in it, to lay back and savour it, to relax and surrender himself entirely to the exquisite sensations. The two sides of his spark locked in conflict, one demanding the decadent torment of self-sacrifice, the other the hedonistic wallowing of pure indulgence.

“More,” Tarn demanded.

And Deathsaurus slipped his tongue right into Tarn’s valve.

Tarn shrilled, on the very edge of overload. If Deathsaurus would put just a little pressure on the back of his anterior node…just something hard for him to grind against, just for a little while… Deathsaurus’s tongue would be ideal, with his saliva providing natural lubrication, but Tarn would be happy with a finger or even, Fates help him, Deathsaurus’s spike. Even his own piercing held against the nub would do…but Deathsaurus didn’t do any of these things. His tongue tentatively worked its way into Tarn’s valve with barely enough pressure to penetrate, let alone please. 

Tarn felt a terrible falling sensation as his body descended from its height without reaching ecstasy. His valve throbbed with pain, and not in a darkly compelling way, either. He just felt neglected and let down and…

 _Damn him_. Deathsaurus was torturing him _on purpose!_

Tarn shoved with his elbows and sat up. _Nobody_ did this to the head of the Decepticon Justice Division, Megatron’s chosen enforce… _the Decepticon Emperor_. A red haze of fury blurred his vision. Tarn opened his mouth, ready to give Deathsaurus a few harsh words that would feel like broken glass shards driven one by one into his spark.

Deathsaurus looked up at him, his expression very uncertain. “Like this?” the rogue commander mumbled, and then put his tongue back into Tarn’s valve, wiggling it in a way that would have felt magnificent if only it had been anywhere actually near an interior node. Throughout the whole disappointing attempt, Deathsaurus continued watching Tarn, as though seeking approval.

Tarn’s fury stilled. His breath caught in his intakes as a new thought occurred to him.

If dominant mechs used their valves out here…and if Deathsaurus had been the _Thunder Arrow’s_ commander for as long as Kaon’s dossier suggested…it was entirely possible, no, _probable_ , that it had been a very, very long time since Deathsaurus had last serviced another mech this way…if _ever._ According to his dossier, Deathsaurus had wasted no time in working his way up the ranks. Perhaps his meteoric rise had been too fast to allow him the opportunity to experiment. 

The idea that Deathsaurus might know even less about their current activity than Tarn’s own meagre knowledge caused a laugh to bubble up from deep in Tarn’s chest, and oh, it was all he could do to swallow it down again. Poor Deathsaurus, the last thing the mech needed would be to think Tarn was laughing at his efforts to please, when in fact the laughter was a natural release taking place at the realization that Deathsaurus was just as far out of his depth as Tarn, and trying equally hard to hide it.

What were they doing? Both feeling so trapped by the ranks they’d achieved and the images they’d cultivated to earn and keep them, stumbling blindly into unexplored territory while desperately pretending to come as conquerors….

Well. Deathsaurus was putting on a very good show, all things considered, and Tarn would hate to embarrass him.

“Recon first,” Tarn breathed, allowing just a touch of his power to infuse his voice—this was coaxing, not coercion. “Search out my nodes. Use your talons. Be _thorough_. Know your territory with absolute _certainty_ before striking with your tongue again.”

Deathsaurus drew back and grinned. “A strategy lesson? Very well.” Obediently, he ran his tongue over his index talon, slathering it with lubricant and licking the tip as though it were a spike. Tarn’s spike ached from the thought of having that kind of attention…but his valve clenched with trepidation as Deathsaurus lowered that finger to the center of Tarn’s ring of piercings.

Tarn felt a little nervous about having Deathsaurus’s finger in his valve, though he tried to hide it. He reminded himself that he’d quite enjoyed having Megatron’s fingers in his valve, roughly opening it, stretching it wide to receive his Lord’s spike.

But Megatron’s fingertips hadn’t been quite so _sharp._

Tarn shuddered, uncertain whether this would be the good kind of pain, or the kind he inflicted on so many traitors in the name of the Decepticon Cause.

Much to Tarn’s surprise, Deathsaurus had incredible precision for such a big, rough-looking beast of a mechanism. Tarn barely felt the talon enter his valve, but then its tip scraped ever-so-lightly against the lowermost interior node in his valve and Tarn found himself seeing stars.

“Tarn?” Deathsaurus asked.

Tarn realized, dimly, that Deathsaurus didn’t know whether the gasp he’d let out was pleasure or pain.

“More of that,” Tarn instructed, hearing the tremor in his own voice.

Deathsaurus chuckled. His earlier hesitance was gone now as he licked each finger in turn and explored Tarn’s valve with excruciating slowness, running his talons very gently over the sensitive interior mesh until he found another node, and then…

… _oh, then, teasing it with sharp talons and then soothing it with that soft, wet tongue…and sliding a moistened finger back into the valve in search of another so it could all be done again…_

Tarn realized, dimly, that he’d spoken that description out loud, and now it was coming true.

He heard a sound that made his spark yearn even as his field of vision danced with static and his struts melted beneath Deathsaurus’s ministrations. He heard Deathsaurus groan into his valve. The rogue commander’s breath wafted hot against his thighs. He felt Deathsaurus stagger, leaning against Tarn’s left leg for support. 

Distantly, Tarn realized that the sound he’d heard had come from his own throat, and he was losing control of his talent. It was affecting him, and Deathsaurus as well, and _he didn’t care_ , not when he could sing Deathsaurus into a pleasure-stupor that would keep him doing what he was doing all day, and into the night as well if Tarn wished, and oh, he thought he just might… Deathsaurus’s tongue was rich, his lubricant thick and syrupy, his talons decadent, but Tarn had an enormous appetite for such indulgences…

Tarn found himself quivering on the verge of overload again, and although he wanted that sweet release—how he wanted it—his rational mind came online at a must inopportune time. It promptly flagged a number of crucial factors to his attention and, reluctantly, Tarn realized that revelling in his pleasures might not be the best thing for the Empire right now.

He did, after all, have to take Deathsaurus’s spike. That was how this arrangement worked.

And it was entirely possible that after he overloaded, his nodes—his whole valve—might become hypersensitive and uncomfortable to touch. He usually could hardly bear to touch his valve for a few days after his liaisons with Megatron. If he indulged himself now, his upcoming interface with Deathsaurus might be very uncomfortable indeed.

Not to mention how bad it would look for him to convulse with pleasure at Deathsaurus’s touch while Deathsaurus himself remained in perfect control.

No, the smart thing was, now that he was all revved up, to give the order for Deathsaurus to get on with jacking in to him. At the very least it would make the interface more comfortable. Perhaps he might even overload from the spike in his valve, even though it wasn’t Megatron’s. 

And if he didn’t overload…well. He would have to fake it, and he wasn’t the slightest bit above using his voice to bring Deathsaurus to his knees and convince the other Decepticon that he’d provided Tarn with exactly the sort of service he’d wanted, just like a good little subordinate ought to. 

He would not allow Deathsaurus to think that pleasing him was impossible. He didn’t dare. There was nothing like a sense of futility to incite revolution, as Tarn had learned the hard way from case after case of disloyalty blamed on a loss of faith in the Cause. Tarn still felt that there was a heavy degree of moral failure involved, but even he couldn’t deny that Megatron had not provided for his own people as well as he should have. In the end, Megatron was all about Megatron; and Tarn was all about the Cause. _They were not the same._

And the Cause would not benefit from Deathsaurus feeling that Tarn was impossible to satisfy and taking it in his hands to start a mutiny. 

No, Tarn had to convince Deathsaurus that good service was its own reward, and not let his own personal sexual tastes interfere with just consequences. In this case, failure to respond to Deathsaurus’s efforts would be as bad as begging him. Tarn would walk that middle line if it killed him.

He silenced his voice, and though Deathsaurus continued his ministrations—three talons deep in Tarn’s valve at this point—Tarn felt the tension lessen, and suspected Deathsaurus did too. He could hear the rogue commander panting for breath. Likely he was now wondering what came over him.

Tarn would make the best decision for the sake of the Decepticon Cause. He _would_.

But _oh_ , how he _wanted_.


	6. Paradise by the Dashboard Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the point where we crank up the heat and, like the merciless Decepticon I am, keep it there for another two chapters.
> 
> Go get your asbestos underpants, is what I'm saying.

Chapter Six: Paradise by the Dashboard Light

“Is this the part,” Deathsaurus asked mildly, “where we see if my spike meets your standards?”

Tarn was not sure how Deathsaurus could say such a thing so calmly, with such an innocent expression, while his cheeks were covered with Tarn’s lubricant and his tongue probably still tasted like the inside of Tarn’s valve, where it had been only a few seconds before. Tarn wasn’t entirely certain he trusted himself to be able to speak with a steady voice, which was going to be a problem, since he had to give the order for the spike in question to enter his valve and consummate this primitive ritual for sealing an alliance. 

The fact that Deathsaurus seemed a little too innocent made Tarn wonder if the rogue commander was deliberately messing with him. He had no idea how he was supposed to react. Should he laugh? Or respond as though to an insult? Megatron was cunning, but no trickster, not like Deathsaurus, and Tarn had no experience dealing with a person as mercurial as the Warworld’s captain.

Tarn merely nodded, not trusting himself to talk quite yet. His valve clenched on nothing, wet and slick, its lips swollen around Tarn’s series of piercings.

Deathsaurus rose to his feet, making a show of lifting his arms above his head and flaring his wings while he stretched the kinks out of his spinal strut. With his left hand, he casually flicked his beast helm back into position until the hooked beak curved out in front of his face again. He’d pushed it back while his face had been buried between Tarn’s thighs, a most useful feature that Tarn couldn’t help wondering about. Whatever had possessed Deathsaurus to install it? 

_Who had he been eating out, or sucking off, that made it necessary?_

Tarn’s instincts prickled. There was something very wrong, very dangerous about giving consideration to Deathsaurus’s previous lovers. Tarn wasn’t sure what it was, only that doing so was asking for trouble. He would ponder the question later. He had more than enough trouble as it was.

Tarn tried to remind himself that Deathsaurus wasn’t any more experienced at this role-reversal interface than he was, but it was hard to believe it when Deathsaurus nonchalantly slid his right hand down his torso to the catch on his spike panel. He looked Tarn right in the eye, pulled the corner of his mouth up in a lazy smile, and popped the release. Deathsaurus’s spike extended without any need for additional prompting.

Tarn was doing an effective job of hiding his trepidation from his partner, but he needed a _mask_ to do it. Deathsaurus was either a far better actor or else he really _didn’t_ give two scraps that he was making it up as he went. This, Tarn remembered, was someone whose response to _here come the DJD_ was to pack a box with high explosives and _push it into Tarn’s arms_ —and Tarn had _carried_ it, too off-balance by Deathsaurus’s bizarre presumption to argue. Did _anything_ rattle Deathsaurus?

Would Tarn have been better off with one of his other List candidates…one more inclined to _behave himself_?

Tarn took a look at Deathsaurus’s spike and realized it was far too late for second thoughts.

“What do you think?” Deathsaurus inquired, gesturing down at his spike. His optics sparkled with sharp amusement. “Will this do?”

His spike, of course, looked absolutely huge from where Tarn lay, but of course Tarn wasn’t going to say so. What kind of backhanded compliment would it be, to compare him to Megatron, even if Deathsaurus ended up the better for the comparison? What Tarn was looking at was possibly longer and definitely wider than any spike Tarn had taken before.

“The important part is not what it looks like,” Tarn said, hoping his tone sounded appropriately _scathing_ —yes, scathing was definitely the effect he was going for. “It’s what you _do_ with it.” And he knew damned well Deathsaurus hadn’t had a lot of practice doing things with it. That comment should remind the Warworld’s captain of his place.

Tarn trusted his mask to uphold the illusion of being on the verge of boredom while he took a moment to ventilate deeply and calm himself down. Because Megatron’s spike had been the perfect intersection of form and function—not that Tarn would ever say so, not with Megatron’s opinion of Functionalism—but it was _true_. Big enough to stretch without tearing, rounded at the tip for comfortable entry, ridged throughout the length in places that more or less corresponded to Tarn’s interior nodes. And, of course, it was _Megatron’s_.

Deathsaurus’s spike wasn’t just _bigger_ than Megatron’s, it was a thoroughly savage affair with a pointed, V-shaped tip, a definite curve in its length, and raised patterning that Tarn sincerely hoped only produced the _effect_ of spines. It was hard to tell for sure given that the spike was such a dark blue colour. The only contrasting colours came from a narrow yellow ring that lay beneath the head and deeply recessed biolights that glowed an ominous, dangerous red along the spike’s length. 

Had anyone actually fucked that? Tarn wondered. _Ever_?

_Was the whole reason for the valve-dominant culture out here a desperate move on behalf of Deathsaurus’s subordinates_ not _to have to fuck that?_

And of course the absolute worst part of the whole situation was that Tarn’s treacherous _valve_ responded to his frame’s _wholly understandable_ fear by becoming _ridiculously_ wet, as though it couldn’t _wait_ to find out what would happen when it got lanced by that…that _cannon_ Deathsaurus was packing.

Tarn felt moisture slowly sliding over his upper thighs. Moisture that hadn’t been left by Deathsaurus’s tongue.

Tarn would be shocked at himself _later_. This would be a good thing. The wetter he was, the easier this would be.

Deathsaurus was taking a long time about it, though. Tarn flicked his optics back on. 

Immediately a smile of exultation stretched below his mask.

His comment had hit its mark. Deathsaurus was looking down at him in obvious trepidation, as though he wasn’t entirely sure that what he could _do with_ his spike was going to meet Tarn’s standards.

_Good._

“I like a slow penetration,” Tarn purred. 

Which was a complete and utter lie. Tarn had always liked it best when Megatron filled him in a single savage thrust, all the way to the hilt. Complete and utter possession. Surrender presumed and taken. Absolute mastery of a willing vessel. But there was no way Tarn was going to tell Deathsaurus _that_. 

Tarn was going to try to make this easy for himself, and if it didn’t work—if he didn’t like it—he would tell Deathsaurus to go fast and get it over with. He was the leader, and that was his right. Having a plan of attack made Tarn feel a lot better.

“I want you to see how long you can stretch it out,” Tarn murmured. “You _do_ have enough self-control for that, don’t you?”

Deathsaurus snarled as he braced his hands on either side of Tarn’s torso. “I’d appreciate a little more _faith_ ,” he growled, but Tarn could see by the way the feathers on his helm bristled that the comment had hit a nerve. And, like any good Decepticon, Deathsaurus perceived a threat and promptly responded with aggression. Tarn smiled with satisfaction.

“Come, then,” Tarn whispered in Deathsaurus’s audio. “Make me a _believer_.”

Deathsaurus leaped onto the berth, kneeling between Tarn’s spread thighs. Again, Tarn was impressed by the sight of a movement so fluid from someone so large. Deathsaurus was grace without delicacy, intelligence without civilization, precision without hesitation. Tarn realized, dimly, that his mouth had gone dry.

Deathsaurus reached down. Tarn couldn’t tell where that hand was going—Deathsaurus was too big, too close, their chests almost touching—but he could feel when it arrived at its destination. Even without looking, Deathsaurus’s talons found four metal rings. Wove into them. Tugged. The left side of Tarn’s valve opened obediently. Deathsaurus deftly placed the valve lip in position around his spike head.

Tarn quivered. And raised his head to Deathsaurus’s helm to maintain the illusion that he was in command.

Deathsaurus smirked and repeated the movement on the opposite side. Tarn could feel that pointed spike head between his valve lips, but he sensed no pressure at all. The tip must be right on the verge of penetrating his first ring of calipers.

The rogue commander flared his wings and smiled down at Tarn. The beak of his helm touched the crest on Tarn’s mask. “Permission to proceed?” he asked sweetly, though his smile revealed a flash of fangs.

Tarn rubbed Deathsaurus’s helm and realized, with shock, that the big Decepticon was leaning into the touch, the way Ravage did with Soundwave. Tarn felt suddenly, inexplicably, pleased. “Permission granted.”

Deathsaurus leaned forward.

One thing about that V-shaped head—like an arrow, it was engineered to find its mark. It slid smoothly into a valve already well-prepared to receive it after so much stretching with talons and moistening with tongue and stimulation with both. Tarn felt the ridges behind the spike head scrape over node after node and realized he was going to have to seriously re-evaluate his calculations for function and form. Maybe it was just that his valve was very, very slick and ready to receive, but Tarn couldn’t really think of a better way to fit a spike that thick into a valve than to streamline it that way…unless, of course, it was also designed to brush against each node as it entered and keep the lubricants flowing.

Which it apparently was.

Tarn bit down on his lip as something brushed against a particularly sensitive node. It wasn’t the spike head, he didn’t think. It was something partway up the shaft. A ridge, or one of those maybe-spines? Tarn didn’t know, but it felt great. So great that his whole body shuddered and Deathsaurus’s grin widened and the rogue commander’s hands closed on Tarn’s shoulder treads and shoved him down on the berth while that structure, whatever it was, teased him unmercifully. Tarn’s fans accelerated of their own accord. 

The worst of it was that it would be so easy to let go.

Because it felt good, _extremely_ good in fact, to have that big thick spike filling up his well-prepared valve. It felt _incredible_ to have those long-neglected nodes given such delicious and _thorough_ attention, so slowly, each one in its turn. His valve certainly approved, from the way it pumped out lubricant. Deathsaurus’s spike moved in slick, decadent strokes and Tarn’s hips moved as though on command to meet him. Tarn realized, distantly, that he was moving not in tandem with Deathsaurus but in counterpoint. His own frame was conspiring to drive that spike deeper.

Tarn’s hands reached up and grabbed Deathsaurus’s sides, whether to shove him away or pull him closer, Tarn didn’t know. Deathsaurus was as big as Megatron, equally sturdy and just as satisfyingly heavy on top of him. But if he was a stand-in for Megatron, did Tarn want to submit to his Lord’s will—or slap a collar around that recalcitrant neck? 

Tarn didn’t know. He felt confused, on the verge of panic again, and without thinking, he tightened the calipers in his valve.

Deathsaurus hissed. Tarn realized, after the fact, that he’d done something to provoke a reaction.

And what a reaction it was.

Deathsaurus thrust in deep, as deep as Megatron had ever gotten, maybe deeper, because Tarn couldn’t remember ever feeling like this before. It felt as though there was a particularly sensitive node buried deep in his valve, up over and above the downloading jack, or maybe behind it. Wherever it was, Deathsaurus’s spike had found its mark. The node had gone from centuries of neglect to full and heavy use, and the sensations it produced were as tangled as Tarn’s thoughts.

Ecstasy. Torment. Tarn couldn’t tell. That node was so sensitive, so very delicate, and Deathsaurus was manhandling it like the beast he was with that savage, ridge-covered spike. It would have felt like transcendent pleasure if only it had not been a bit too much for Tarn’s systems to comfortably handle. Instead, it felt like choking on a big gulp of triple-distilled engex, or gagging on an overly large chunk of jellied energon: too much of a good thing. Tarn writhed, left, then right, trying to decrease the sensation to an intensity he could handle.

But Deathsaurus wouldn’t let him get away. The other Decepticon pinned him down, angling his body, staying right with Tarn, keeping his spike thrusting right against that spot, moving when Tarn moved, following him. 

Tarn’s fans were on full, but still not reducing heat fast enough. His whole frame felt searing hot, though Deathsaurus didn’t seem bothered. Presssure built: an impending overlord, Tarn realized with horror. He’d thought he was in control of his pleasure, keeping it measured and restrained. He’d thought wrong. Tarn’s whole body screamed for release and Deathsaurus, well, Deathsaurus looked as though he could happily frag this way all day.

There was _no way_ Tarn could let himself overload before Deathsaurus did.

Not even when— _especially when_ —it would feel so good to let go and let Deathsaurus fuck him into oblivion. 

Tarn looked up into two sets of brilliant ruby optics and had the awful sensation that he was no longer the beast’s master, but rather, his prey.


	7. Rocket Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changed the series title as the concept of the series settles in my mind. Yeah. Settling in for another long one, here, and just when I didn't think I had room at my dock for another permanent ship.

Chapter Seven: Rocket Queen

Tarn could barely think straight any longer. His frame just wanted to lie back and savour the big spike buried deep in his valve, lighting up his nodes with glowing pleasure and sending heat licking up his spinal strut until his vision danced with stars. 

Tarn felt his overload threatening to swamp his senses and blow out his pleasure sensors, and as far as he could tell, Deathsaurus had no such problem. Deathsaurus was fragging him hard and appeared as though he could do so for hours yet to come. The rogue commander had a sly grin on his face and looked rather pleased with himself.

In that moment, Tarn realized what Deathsaurus was trying to do.

To Deathsaurus’ way of thinking, the mech who used his valve was dominant…but that would only hold true so long as the mech on the receiving end could remain in control. Begging his partner, instead of ordering, was a definite loss of control. Deathsaurus was _deliberately_ testing Tarn’s self-control. He wanted Tarn to beg. For less, or for more; either would be a victory for Deathsaurus. Or maybe he just wanted Tarn to overload first, which would probably also be a proof of surrender.

Tarn felt his temper flare. Challenge his authority, would he? Yes, it was a very Decepticon thing to do, and Tarn would have approved of it were he not so close to losing control thanks to Deathsaurus’s cunning tongue and deliberate provocation. But on the heels of his anger came a rush of satisfaction. 

Because two could play this game, and Tarn knew he could win it.

Tarn started humming, so softly it was barely audible. He briefly wondered if this was cheating and dismissed the concern almost instantly; if Deathsaurus wanted to torment him, he could return the favour. 

Tarn laced his voice with all the sweet poison of seduction, but even as he murmured notes under his mask, he doubted his song could take effect fast enough to ward off his rapidly crumbling resistance to the merciless pleasure Deathsaurus was giving him. Tarn knew he could produce pain almost instantly, but ecstasy was far more difficult and time was not on his side. And resorting to using his voice to harm would break the alliance completely.

No, he had to do more. Tarn reached up with his hands, intending to rub them down Deathsaurus’s back, but instead he found them bumping up against the roots of Deathsaurus’s wings. He’d forgotten the rogue commander had those. His hands tightened instinctively and grasped the wings at their bases.

Deathsaurus’ optics—both pairs—flared with ruby light as his back arched and his wings snapped straight out behind him. The sound that tore its way from his open throat could only be described as a _roar_. And Tarn could’ve sworn he felt the other Decepticon’s spike pulse inside his valve.

Tarn smirked. “I think someone has an erogenous zone,” he murmured, his voice dripping dulcet honey even as his fingers explored those wing roots. He watched, fascinated, as one movement made Deathsaurus keen with need, while another made him hiss as though the pleasure had become so intense that it was uncomfortable to sustain it for long. And Tarn had been correct. Deathsaurus’s spike _definitely_ pulsed in response to his touches on the rogue commander’s wings.

“Speak for _yourself_ ,” Deathsaurus hissed, and dug his talons into the treads on Tarn’s shoulders.

Tarn almost lost control right there. His only salvation was that he was able to summon up a mental image repulsive enough to kill his arousal, even with Deathsaurus’s claws stimulating his treads and Deathsaurus’s spike pulsing seductively against his nodes, top to bottom, as though fragging him from the inside out.

It turned out even the thought of betraying the Decepticon Cause by surrendering his body to Optimus Prime’s domination wasn’t enough to keep overload at bay for long. That spike and those claws worked their magic and Tarn found himself groaning helplessly with pleasure. There was a spine at the root of Deathsaurus’s spike that was doing unholy things to the ring that pierced Tarn’s anterior node, and Tarn realized that a life of private hedonism had still not prepared him for pleasure such as this. All the discipline in the world couldn’t change the fact that Tarn’s body had always had cravings his mind couldn’t control. His infamous desires for changing shape and nuke boosts were nothing next to this. 

_Hooked. From the very first frag._

He was going to be on his knees before he knew it, begging Deathsaurus to take him over and over again, and he knew he would not be able to resist his own lust. 

He knew, at heart, he didn’t want to.

Tarn tried to moan Deathsaurus’s name, but his lips felt numb. He couldn’t articulate words. He could only make animal sounds.

Animal sounds that, incoherent as they might be, still contained the full power of Tarn’s voice.

Tarn had thought the fragging had been intense before. He wasn’t prepared for Deathsaurus’s whole frame to shudder in response. Deathsaurus released Tarn’s treads and braced his hands on the berth on either side of Tarn’s head. Tarn was about to complain at the loss of that lovely tread-kneading when Deathsaurus’s hips began thrusting at a furious pace, lighting up all his nodes with almost unbearable pleasure, driving his spike hard and deep into Tarn’s valve, tugging relentlessly at his anterior node.

And Tarn realized he’d never put a guard on his valve port.

Why would he? It wasn’t as though anyone other than Megatron ever jacked into him. How could they, with that lock on his valve? The lock that only Megatron knew the access code to open? And why would Tarn ever decline a download from his Lord and Master?

But now Tarn had no protection when the jack on Deathsaurus’s spike rammed deep into his receptive port and connected.

It felt _incredible_. Beyond incredible. Tarn overloaded, his vision exploding in multicoloured static, his valve pulsing hungrily for _more-more-more_ even as his sensors flashed warnings into his brain that his systems were strained to their limits. 

Tarn’s body spasmed and an inexplicable image filtered into his consciousness, blotting out Deathsaurus gritting his teeth to fend off his own overload. Tarn was looking down on his own sleeping form, as though his spark had left his body and was viewing it from the outside. And his frame was definitely not getting fragged hard by someone who’d recently been on the List. He was lying in this same berth, but on his side, with a tarp pulled over him. 

It was nothing like viewing surveillance footage. Tarn felt a sense of protectiveness swelling his spark, but underneath, the emotion was tinged with trepidation and a healthy dose of…admiration? Fear? His gaze traced the contours of his own frame as though of its own accord, and Tarn could make no sense of the intermingled appreciation and unease he experienced. He felt drawn in against his will, pulled by a centripetal force he couldn’t control and didn’t understand. He ought to be repulsed, but he was attracted instead. He balled his hands into fists, and his talons bit into his palms.

Except Tarn’s fingers, though sharp, weren’t exactly _talons_.

Not like…

Tarn’s overload, still wracking his frame after all this time, intensified. The vision disappeared in a series of distorted waves that flashed static and then faded to black as his vision reset. The sudden jolt of sensation, the extremes of pleasure and pain, combined to tear a shriek from Tarn’s throat.

A shriek alive with power.

Deathsaurus screamed. Tarn fell back, gasping air into his intakes and watching the rogue commander overloading above him. Tarn felt the charge flowing from Deathsaurus’s spike into his valve. 

He smiled to himself and warbled a battle cry. Deliberately. 

Deathsaurus’s optics shone like beacons. His wings flared out above him, stretching to their full span. His claws sank into the berth, shredding the tarps and gouging the slab beneath. 

Tarn, of course, had no concept of mercy. He held that last note, drawing out Deathsaurus’s overload, letting him spasm again and again until finally, _finally_ the rogue warlord’s movements weakened just as Tarn’s voice gave out.

Tarn fell silent. Deathsaurus had just enough strength left in his trembling limbs to withdraw from Tarn’s valve and guide his body away from falling directly on top of the DJD’s commander. He landed heavily on his right side, wings stretched over the side of the berth, facing Tarn. 

Tarn swallowed, gulping air, shocked and almost frightened by the narrow margin of his victory. A few seconds more….perhaps even just one more second…and his voice would have failed him and then, oh, then Deathsaurus might have rallied and seized control. And then what? 

Or had he already forfeited his right to lead because he’d overloaded first?

For a while—Tarn couldn’t say how long—the only sounds were the ticking of their armour as their frames cooled and the steady hum of their fans.

As Tarn’s vision returned, he glanced over at Deathsaurus. Deathsaurus, he found, was staring back at him. The rogue warlord looked stunned; his optics were comically wide. Tarn could’ve sworn—he wasn’t entirely certain, but it looked to him as though the secondary optics on Deathsaurus’s helm were also wider than they used to be.

“By the Smelter,” Deathsaurus said at last. He shot Tarn a sidelong glare. “Tell me, is it always that hard to give you an overload, or were you testing me?”

So. By the rueful expression on Deathsaurus’s face, overloading first had apparently not been an act of surrender after all. Rather than hinting at his relief, Tarn took the opportunity Deathsaurus had inadvertently granted him. “I wanted to see what you were capable of. I was not disappointed.”

Deathsaurus seemed skeptical. “Really? Because if I were you, I’d have expected two or three good overloads before my stud got his.”

Oh. So _that_ was how it worked. The submissive mech using his spike was expected to give his superior multiple overloads before being allowed his own release. Tarn would know, next time.

“Well, that’s hardly _fair_ ,” Tarn said generously, “given as how I _cheated_. As soon as I started to sing, you didn’t really have a chance.”

“If you wanted to demonstrate your power, you succeeded,” Deathsaurus admitted. 

Tarn managed not to chuckle. Alliance sealed, then.

But as he looked at the humbled expression on Deathsaurus’s face, his smile slipped away.

It seemed difficult for Deathsaurus to admit that he’d been mastered. Deathsaurus was proud, competent, fearless, strong—an excellent leader. After being independent for so long, coming back under someone else’s command would not be easy for him.

Tarn could use his voice to keep Deathsaurus in his thrall. He could threaten the other mech with pain, but it would be better to seduce him with pleasure, he thought, and then a third option took him by surprise.

That image he’d seen during his overload. Watching himself from outside himself. Feeling emotions imposed upon his consciousness. Taloned hands. 

Deathsaurus had jacked into him and uploaded a memory.

It was a memory from the night before, when Deathsaurus had put him to bed. Deathsaurus had stayed awake while Tarn slept, watching him recharge. What Tarn had felt had been Deathsaurus’s feelings. Understandable wariness and that strange protectiveness. Unexpected attraction taking him by surprise.

Tarn looked at the feral warrior in the berth next to him and realized that he felt much the same.

He could control Deathsaurus with his voice, but maybe…maybe he wouldn’t need to use his outlier power at all.

Maybe, if he was considerate and fair, _just being himself_ would be enough.

Tarn was still a little uncertain what he truly was, to be honest. He’d spent so long trading on his ability and his rank that he wasn’t exactly sure of his identity beyond _the DJD’s commander—the one with the voice_. He certainly wasn’t _Megatron’s most loyal servant_ any longer. Tarn realized, with a sudden pang of fear, that he might be completely hollow under the mask. Without his reputation, was there anything worthwhile left?

There had to be _something_ , Tarn thought. Something that didn’t just want to charm or terrorize Deathsaurus into obedience.

Something that wanted Deathsaurus to want him, for himself.

Something that wanted Deathsaurus, not just to be his field commander or the public face of the Decepticon Empire, but for something else entirely.

Tarn had no words for what that thing might be, but he once again felt that same sensation of centripetal force, and this time it was not from replaying a recording of Deathsaurus’s memories. No, this time it was all Tarn’s own emotions, and just like Deathsaurus he felt drawn in to something he didn’t understand. He’d been given no choice in the matter. 

And sometimes, Tarn thought, it was most enjoyable to simply submit to a superior power.


	8. Passion's Killing Floor

Chapter Eight: Passion’s Killing Floor 

Tarn wondered if his strange impulse to be good to Deathsaurus was driven by the same emotion he felt for the rest of his team. There had to be a word for this newfound desire to treat Deathsaurus with care and respect, rather than simply using his voice to threaten him into obedience or even to charm him into compliance. But no, he didn’t think of Deathsaurus the way he thought of the most recent Vos, or Helex, or Tesarus. 

_Amica…?_

No, that wasn’t right either. They hadn’t had enough time together to build the kind of trust that cemented Tarn’s bond with Kaon, and even before becoming _amica endurae_ it had felt different with Kaon. Kaon had always been a kindred spirit, yes, and Tarn looked forward to spending time with him and talking to him, but that had been a comforting feeling, not this roiling maelstrom he felt when he looked at Deathsaurus now.

And, of course, Kaon wasn’t interested in interfacing.

Tarn had considered the idea, long ago, but it had been surprisingly easy for Tarn to drop it once Kaon told him he wasn’t interested. Kaon had never minded those rare occasions when Tarn had indulged his more physical needs with other mechanisms. And for millions of years now, Tarn had turned to Kaon for emotional support and Megatron for, well, everything else.

He’d told himself he was happy reserving his valve for Megatron’s use, on those precious few occasions when Megatron took him to his berth, and he’d almost believed it.

News of Megatron’s betrayal unleashed a tumult of pent-up resentment and frustration and, yes, anger that Tarn hadn’t even realized he’d been holding back. Suffering for the Cause meant nothing when Megatron himself had betrayed that cause. Tarn had sacrificed so much for Megatron and Megatron had spat on Tarn’s gifts.

Well, Megatron was in for a surprise when Tarn and his new ally caught up with him.

Tarn’s valve ached deliciously. Fluids dripped, and Tarn squirmed, shocked at his frame for being thrilled instead of disgusted. 

There was a very interesting custom out here on the Rim in which alliances were sealed by fragging. There was an even more fascinating twist in that mechs who used their spikes were considered submissive, like living sex toys to serve their mates’ pleasures. Tarn had come out here to recruit Deathsaurus, and his reward was Deathsaurus’s intimate services.

Tarn had needed to set aside his own ingrained cultural beliefs, which told him that spikes were for conquerors and valves were for conquests. He’d also needed to get over that old dependence which whispered in his mind that his valve was for Megatron and Megatron alone. Megatron had forsaken him. Tarn owed him nothing. He would use his valve to seal the future of the Empire and Megatron’s doom.

He hadn’t expected to enjoy it.

Now Tarn had the sneaking suspicion that, like nuke, he was hooked from his first hit. 

And yet, when Tarn looked over at Deathsaurus’s shocked and uncertain expression, it wasn’t self-interest that guided his hand to reach out and gently cup Deathsaurus’s cheek.

Deathsaurus watched him warily. Tarn hummed a soft song of reassurance—at least he hoped he did. He was rather out of practice with caressing a spark, but really it wasn’t that much different than squeezing one—it was just a matter of how much force he used. Tarn slid his hand to the back of Deathsaurus’s helm, near the feathers, and scratched lightly.

Deathsaurus purred and promptly startled. “Sssh,” Tarn soothed. “Enjoy this. You’ve earned it.”

It seemed, Tarn thought with amusement, that Deathsaurus’s wide optics were able to widen further still. Combined with the jaw drop, it was a very appealing look for him. Shocked or not, though, Deathsaurus didn’t protest. He leaned into Tarn’s touch, hesitant at first, then with obvious appreciation.

“Get comfortable,” Tarn whispered. “Show me how you relax.”

Deathsaurus looked up at him warily.

Tarn felt the hum of power in his voice. “Put yourself in my hands and _let go_.”

And Tarn saw the moment when Deathsaurus chose not to fight, and decided to trust and obey instead. The rogue commander rolled over from his side to his back, and Tarn rolled onto his own side to keep his hand from slipping out of position. His wings draped over the berth, and his limbs sprawled out.

“Good,” Tarn purred, and he smiled under his mask as he heard a tell-tale click from somewhere down below.

“You,” Deathsaurus breathed, and then his lips moved without sound, as though he were unable to articulate what, exactly, Tarn was. 

Or perhaps he was afraid that if he asked for what he wanted, Tarn would laugh at him and pull away. But it wasn’t as though Tarn had difficulty guessing what Deathsaurus might want of him. Deathsaurus’s splayed legs and open panels and glistening valve made it very clear what he had in mind.

Tarn couldn’t help but feel a little flattered. And the expression on Deathsaurus’s face—that _very nervous_ expression—made him chuckle to himself. Of course, from Deathsaurus’s point of view, the rogue commander was doing a very daring thing, admitting that he wanted his superior officer to service him. But from Tarn’s point of view, what he saw was a frame eagerly offered; and his role, as the embodiment of the Cause, was to accept that sacrifice.

“You’d like to entertain my spike?” Tarn murmured.

Deathsaurus licked dry lips. “You’d share it with me?” he asked, incredulous.

“Not if I’m not wanted,” Tarn murmured as he opened his spike panel. The head of his spike brushed Deathsaurus’s inner thigh. Deathsaurus quivered. 

Tarn’s spike wasn’t a feral monstrosity like Deathsaurus’s, but it would certainly do. Given that his mods were directly inspired by Megatron, he knew his spike was more than adequate by most mech’s standards. His original spike had been nothing particularly impressive—smaller than average for his frame type, plain, boringly ordinary. Megatron’s had been a work of art. And now, so was his. _Exactly the same_ work of art, just with the added piercing: pain to give pleasure, pleasure to cause pain.

It occurred to him that Megatron probably didn’t know about his modded spike, because Megatron had never asked to see his spike. Tarn felt a flash of resentment. Well, he would _not_ make Megatron’s mistake. He would not ignore Deathsaurus’s desires. He wondered if Megatron had been playing power games with him, or if he simply hadn’t thought to care.

Deathsaurus’s optics seemed fixed on the large silver piercing through the head of Tarn’s spike. It made Tarn grin. He wondered—hoped—that Deathsaurus found the ornament as shocking and exotic as he’d found Deathsaurus’s spike.

“You’re wanted,” the rogue warlord said hoarsely, “but I don’t understand. I thought we were both clear now who was in charge.”

“Oh, I think we’re clear,” Tarn purred, “but it’s always been my philosophy to reward good service.” He leaned forward, letting the piercing at the tip of his spike brush Deathsaurus’s anterior node.

Deathsaurus’s optics had finally reached their maximum width, but his sudden sharp intake of breath told Tarn all he needed to know.

“And since we have such strange customs on Cybertron,” Tarn continued, “I really don’t mind being generous.”

Tarn let the ring trail downward, over Deathsaurus’s node, resting it on the plump valve lips. He gritted his teeth when he felt moisture against the tip of his spike—he would _not_ ruin this experience by rushing. Instead, he shifted his weight, first left, then right. His piercing caught on Deathsaurus’s valve lips and pulled them back just enough for Tarn to nudge the tip of his spike inside.

Deathsaurus whimpered.

Tarn hesitated. The moisture on his spike head was a tantalizing taste of a decadent fluid he really did want to sample properly, but he wanted to make sure Deathsaurus was ready. And yet it would really not be very proper at all for a leader to ask permission of a subordinate. What to do?

“Please,” Deathsaurus gasped, his voice raw. His whole frame trembled with need. “ _Please_.”

_Well_. That was very obviously permission. And given that Deathsaurus had tried to make _him_ beg, turnabout looked very, very good indeed on the rogue warlord. 

Apparently Tarn’s relative inexperience hadn’t been such a problem after all. It was almost a shame Tarn still had his mask on. It hid the big, wide, smug smile that he could feel playing on his lips and making his cheeks ache ever so delightfully.

But even the satisfaction of victory didn’t compare to the feeling Tarn experienced when he finally took pity on Deathsaurus. He sheathed his spike in one smooth stroke, feeling his piercing catch on node after node as it plunged deeper. Deathsaurus howled his appreciation in a warbling cry: animalistic, primitive, but something about it sent a shiver of excitement up Tarn’s backstrut as he started to move his hips. That howl was a kind of savage music he thought he might learn to appreciate.

Tarn decided, there and then, that he was glad to have found a life after Megatron.

#

It was midday before Tarn and Deathsaurus emerged from Tarn’s quarters. Tarn’s valve twinged with every step. From the way Deathsaurus was walking, Tarn suspected that the other Decepticon felt much the same after the thorough reaming he’d given Deathsaurus’s valve.

Ugh, he’d much rather spend the rest of the day lounging in his berth, listening to music and reading.

The image of doing so with a big, warm, blue body curled up at his side flickered into his consciousness and stuck there before he pushed it away, with some effort. That thought had a way of capturing his imagination. It also lit up yellow caution lights across his heads-up display. Tarn wasn’t in the mood to court trouble right now. He might already have more trouble than he wanted to deal with.

Because he really wasn’t sure how the rest of the DJD were taking his extended absence. They had to know something unusual had taken place. And if they’d taken out their concern on any of Deathsaurus’s crew, last night’s meeting might have been a pointless formality before their respective people began a battle to the death.

Tarn thought again, sourly, of how he’d tried to send a message to Kaon before his meeting with Deathsaurus in his quarters. He’d wanted to make sure Kaon kept particular watch on the surveillance equipment in his room, just in case Deathsaurus tried anything untoward. At the time, Tarn had been thinking more along the lines of _assassination._

But Kaon hadn’t answered. He’d gotten Vos instead. And Vos had told him, very seriously, that he would keep his optics open.

Vos hadn’t said, or done, a damned thing when Deathsaurus had put Tarn on the recharge slab and curled right up beside him. Tarn huffed. What, _precisely_ , would Vos describe as _untoward_? Would Vos have sent someone to knock on his door, or at the very least commed him to see if he was okay, if Deathsaurus had tried to do something unwanted to him in his sleep?

Or would Vos have just sat there and _watched_?

Tarn was really not sure sometimes what to think of the DJD’s second-newest member. Nickel seemed to like him, but Vos had twisted morality even by DJD standards, and sometimes Tarn wondered if perhaps he’d selected poorly.

Tarn need to find his crew and talk to them, right _now_. He tried not to look at Deathsaurus. Just the sight of the other Decepticon brought back those caution lights and a whole host of images. Unfortunately, he still didn’t know his way around the Warworld that well, and it was obvious to him as he walked past open door after open door that the DJD were not aboard the Peaceful Tyranny. Tarn had no choice but to follow Deathsaurus as the other Decepticon left via the boarding ramp in the rear of the ship, descending into the hangar bay of the Warworld.

Tarn had just about convinced himself that everything was going to work out in his favour when he saw the silhouetted figure of a stranger standing at the bottom of the ramp.

The stranger’s alt mode was evidently some kind of jet, judging by the brilliant teal-green wings on his back. His helm, though, was fashioned in the shape of some kind of feline—a creature akin to Razorclaw. Its stylized mane framed his face, while its fanged maw cast shadow on his optics. He stood with his arms folded across his chest, and when he spoke, it was not with the deference of a subordinate to a superior. He addressed Deathsaurus as though Tarn was not even there.

“You can stop that fake limping, _sir_ ,” the jet said, his voice taunting. “We all know you wouldn’t have been able to get anyone from the Decepticon Justice Division anywhere near your sloppy valve.”

“Leozack,” Deathsaurus said, his voice terse. “Not _now_.”

Tarn watched Deathsaurus bristle and felt his fuel tanks sink. He swore he could feel the tension between Leozack and Deathsaurus crackling like cloud-to-cloud lightning.

What kind of trouble had he gotten himself involved in?


	9. Kill the Lights

Chapter Nine: Kill the Lights

By this point in time, Tarn had made his peace with all manner of shocking ideas, including the primitive custom of fragging to seal an alliance and the bizarre custom out here on the Rim to consider a mech using his valve as the dominant partner. He’d even managed to wrap his head around the realization that fragging Deathsaurus had been not entirely unpleasant (in the _would definitely consider doing again_ kind of way). But he’d never once thought to consider that Deathsaurus might already have a sexual partner.

Though, judging by the way Deathsaurus and the mech called Leozack were glaring daggers at one another, Tarn would hazard a guess that the two of them were _former_ partners.

Former partners with a considerable amount of baggage unsettled between them.

Tarn remembered the name just then. The night before, when they’d discussed Deathsaurus’s command staff. Leozack was the Warworld’s Air Commander. And be damned if Tarn could stop from thinking about Megatron and Starscream as he watched Deathsaurus and Leozack face off against one another. Tarn had _never_ understood why Megatron had forbidden the DJD from ever adding Starscream’s name to The List.

Leozack curled his lip in a sneer. “There’s no way Tarn would stoop to servicing _you_. I know exactly what happened. He had you flat on your back as his personal sex toy all night…assuming he found your spike to his tastes. Or maybe you didn’t get any further than your _knees_.”

“Leozack,” Deathsaurus growled, “I swear if you don’t shut your mouth now…”

Leozack cut him off before he even finished the threat. “Is that valve I smell on your breath? Yes, I thought so. That was what you were doing last night, on your knees lapping Tarn’s valve till dawn.”

Tarn was honestly at a loss for how to respond. These bestial Decepticons were impossibly crude and lacked any sense of shame. Part of him thought he ought to let Deathsaurus handle this situation. Deathsaurus, after all, knew the cultural nuances of his own people. And it would be a blow to Deathsaurus’s authority if Tarn stepped in to discipline one of Deathsaurus’s subordinates and bypassed Deathsaurus entirely. It would imply that Tarn didn’t trust Deathsaurus to deal with it.

On the other hand, Tarn didn’t feel that good about letting this mouthy jet behave in such an insubordinate manner in his presence. If Deathsaurus could have fixed Leozack’s attitude, surely he would have before now. And if Tarn saw his subcommander having trouble, he ought to offer assistance and support, not leave Deathsaurus struggling all by himself.

So Tarn stepped forward and cleared his throat, just loud enough to get the attention of both mechanisms.

“Might I inquire,” Tarn said politely to Leozack, “just what you think _you_ would have done in his place?”

Leozack shivered—ah, yes, Tarn’s reputation preceded him with predictable yet eminently satisfying results—but Tarn noticed that the jet stiffened his spinal strut and looked him in the optics when he answered. “There’s only six of you. Those odds are almost a hundred to one. We could take you.”

Tarn thought he’d just proven yesterday that _no_ , actually he could take the _lot_ of them, but that was assuming Kaon still had Tarn’s comms patched into inter-Decepticon radio and that the Warworld’s communications staff hadn’t changed their frequency. Which, if he were them, would’ve been the first thing he would have done. Whether the DJD could take on the Warworld’s crew right _now_ was a different matter entirely, and sure to cause heavy losses on both sides.

So Tarn chose logic as his weapon. “Perhaps. With massive casualties, of course. And to what end? How do you benefit if we tear one another apart? What good can a decimated Warworld crew do for the Decepticon cause?”

Leozack’s optics shifted left, then right. He looked at Deathsaurus as though he expected his leader to answer.

Deathsaurus smirked and folded his arms. “Go ahead, Leozack. Answer Tarn’s question.”

Leozack spluttered. Tarn realized, with surprise, that Leozack had expected Deathsaurus to overlook his insubordination and band together with him against the outsider. That was probably the way they’d operated before the DJD had come along. Just like Megatron and Starscream, constantly at one another’s throats, but setting aside their animosity long enough to accomplish shared goals for the benefit of the Warworld as a whole. 

Tarn sighed. May Fortune preserve him from _drama_.

Leozack marshalled his courage and leaned forward. “The crew of the _Thunder Arrow_ are ready to unite behind me. Deathsaurus, tell me these _interlopers_ are threatening you, or coercing you, or blackmailing you, or abusing you, and we will rise up and tear them apart.”

Tarn’s optics narrowed. Now he knew exactly what Leozack was trying to do. 

If Deathsaurus admitted he needed help handling Tarn, then as soon as the DJD were dealt with, Leozack would turn on his leader. He would argue that Deathsaurus had been helpless against the DJD and he, Leozack, had been the one to defeat them. Leozack didn’t just want to get rid of Tarn – he wanted to overthrow Deathsaurus, too.

The worst part was that Tarn couldn’t do much to assist his new ally. If he attacked Leozack, the crew of the _Thunder Arrow_ would think he was usurping Deathsaurus’s command, and he’d prove himself to be the brute that Leozack had insinuated he was. If he said that he and Deathsaurus had enjoyed mutual interfacing, Leozack would claim it was a politically-motivated lie. And if he did nothing, he’d look either weak or untrustworthy, unable or unwilling to help.

Tarn glanced around. Deathsaurus and Leozack’s confrontation was drawing curious onlookers. From the way the other Decepticons were watching, this wasn’t the first time they’d seen their leaders go at it. But this time there was an apprehension in the air—possibly the result of Tarn’s presence, or maybe the crew sensed that this might be the fight that changed things.

Tarn felt a hand on his forearm.

Speak of the devil. If it wasn’t Vos. Vos, who Tarn had asked to keep an optic on his quarters after he’d realized he was exhausted to the point of systems crash. Vos, who hadn’t done a damned thing to interrupt when Deathsaurus had put him to bed and then joined him under the tarps.

Tarn wasn’t certain whether or not he was angry with Vos. Nothing had gone wrong, but it _could’ve_ , and Vos’s definition of when to intervene was highly suspect, and…

Tarn cocked an optic ridge, realized the gesture was hidden under his mask, and grunted questioningly to make his meaning plain.

Vos said something in Old Cybertronian. Tarn translated as Kaon, looking well-rested, came up beside them and handed Vos a datapad.

_Permission to prove Leozack wrong_.

Tarn narrowed his optics. His Old Cybertronian was pretty good, but he was still more accustomed to reading it than to hearing it spoken. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d misheard Vos, and…

Then his optics fell on the datapad.

And promptly widened.

Oh, this would _definitely_ prove Leozack wrong. And yet, Tarn felt as though there was a certain threshold of _decency_ to maintain.

Then Tarn thought about a civil war breaking out on the Warworld and reconsidered. A little tarnish on his reputation as a gentlemech was nothing compared to the disaster that would result if the remaining Decepticons, such as they were, spent their time, energy, and lives on conflict between themselves, rather than on punishing Megatron and upholding the Cause.

Still, the contents of that pad weren’t the sort of thing a mech ought to go around publicizing without the permission of all involved. He wondered if Deathsaurus would be angry when he found out that Tarn had security cameras active in his private quarters. 

Only one way to find out.

Tarn reached over and touched Deathsaurus’s shoulder. “Excuse me.”

Deathsaurus startled. Leozack put his hands on his hips, affronted. Tarn held up one finger— _a moment, please_.

Tarn took the datapad from Kaon and showed it to Deathsaurus. The rogue commander’s optics—all four—widened, and then he threw back his head and let out a raucous burst of laughter.

Leozack looked puzzled. He took a step backwards, his confidence ebbing as Deathsaurus didn’t react the way he had expected.

“Oh, that’s _too_ perfect,” Deathsaurus said with a smirk. 

The next thing Tarn knew, Deathsaurus had snatched the datapad right out of his hands. “Guyhawk!” Deathsaurus called, waving to get the attention of one of his crew. “Put this clip up on the big screens!”

_What?_

It was Tarn’s turn to splutter as Deathsaurus grabbed him by the wrist and set off towards the left side of the hangar where, Tarn noticed, a stage was set into the wall. Three huge display screens hung suspended around the stage for maximum visibility. It made sense: the hangar bay was one of the only areas large enough to address the entire crew at once. But was Deathsaurus honestly going to play _that_ for everyone to see?

Deathsaurus practically leapt up the stairs to the stage, still towing Tarn in his wake, and he sauntered to the microphone with a big slag-sucking grin on his face. He flicked the mike on, _winked_ at Tarn, and announced, “Attention all hands! This is your commander speaking. I’m here in the hangar with your new Emperor of Destruction, namely Tarn of the Decepticon Justice Division, and we’d like to formally announce the consummation of our alliance. But you don’t need to take my _word_ for it. If you’ll turn your attention to your viewing screens, I’m pleased to present you with _proof_ that this pact was made without coercion and for the mutual benefit of us all. Enjoy the show.”

_Enjoy the…??_

_!!!_

Tarn couldn’t force himself to look as the video clip—which could best be described as this morning’s highlight reel—played on the big screen. He did notice, however, that the video wasn’t just a direct copy of the security cam footage. It had been cut and edited. It had been set to _rousing music_. And Vos was now sitting on Tesarus’s shoulder and the both of them looked _very pleased with themselves_.

Tarn tried to content himself with the assurance that at least Vos had actually been watching out for him, but the realization that Vos and Tesarus thought nothing of making a…a _pornographic film_ out of security footage made him despair of _ever_ making his team into _civilized_ mechanisms. He had a despairing feeling that they were going to fit right in here on the Warworld.

And now he had Deathsaurus, too, and the big beastformer was _uncivilized_ if he’d ever seen it. Deathsaurus was watching his crew’s faces as they reacted to the images on screen and looked quite proud of his accomplishment. 

Tarn opened his mouth and realized he’d actually lost his voice.

He coughed a little, and finally his throat loosened up enough for his voxcoder to resume function. “I know you said you had _no secrets_ from your crew, but don’t you think that’s just a little… _indecent_?”

“Why _Tarn_.” Deathsaurus smiled slyly. “I saw no need to _boast_ when I could simply let the _truth_ speak for _itself_.”

Tarn was not entirely sure Deathsaurus wasn’t mocking him. But if so, there wasn’t much he could do about it, not here on stage in front of the Warworld’s crew. Not if he didn’t want to inflict all the damage he’d just prevented Leozack from doing. Afterwards, though, afterwards in private, he might need to have a word with his new field marshal.

But as he looked at Deathsaurus, still grinning smugly, as though having to frag to seal the alliance had been a _reward_ rather than an act of surrender, as though he were overjoyed to let the whole crew know it, a shiver ran up his backstrut and he wondered if maybe Deathsaurus was being entirely sincere about his happiness with this arrangement.

That idea was terrifying in an entirely different way. It suggested that the next time he and Deathsaurus were somewhere alone, if Tarn didn’t keep the situation formal and purely business-related, the end result might be less along the line of _discipline_ and more along the line of _delight_ …

Tarn felt shaken. Rattled. Far out of his depths. And against his better judgment, he couldn’t help but wonder: had _Megatron_ ever had to deal with a situation like this?

What would Megatron do?

_Whisper some poetry in Deathsaurus’s audio and frag him into full compliance._

Tarn felt weak in the knees.

Being the new Decepticon Emperor was going to be the death of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
